


The Last Good Day

by IWantYouInMyLife



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison, Alpha Scott, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Feels, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Polyamory, Possessive Behavior, Post-Season/Series 06, Protectiveness, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, body issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-11-17 13:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18099602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWantYouInMyLife/pseuds/IWantYouInMyLife
Summary: "So we should just sit in this house until the psycho decides to let us go?" Allison asked."Not like we have a choice here, babe," Scott said with a wince. "There's truly nothing we can do—she could wipe us all with a swipe of hands. If she wants us to stay here; that's what we'll do."Derek grimaced. "We have to stay in this house all summer?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Hello, everyone! One-shots became my addiction—I need help. Seriously. I've been writing this for months now, and the scenes kept on popping into my head, which meant finishing it was a struggle, 'cause I just wanted to keep going, for another 10K, at least. I decided to leave where it is; it seemed to be the best place.
> 
> The story follows canon until season 6a, ignoring most of what happens on 6b. I've messed around with some stuff, because, well, because I wanted to. Allison is still alive and part of the pack, for example. Most of it is still the same, though.
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all like it!
> 
>  
> 
> **PS: I've decided to divide this story into chapters. It became too long, and I don't have a Beta, so it would've been a pain in the ass to edit such a document all at once. I have the whole thing written already, so don't worry. It will probably be divided into three or four chapters, I think.**

_"Do not follow where the path may lead. Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail."_  
**– Ralph Waldo Emerson**

* * *

Stiles didn't bother knocking or announcing his presence in any form, he just opened the back door with his illegally acquired key and strode in, knowing the Druid had long noticed his presence.

"Hey, doc," he greeted, his eyes landing on the small, unconscious dog lying on the table. "Killed many dogs today?"

Deaton smiled, a needle in his hands. "Sparkles needs stitches; he's not dying. I'm sure he appreciates your concern, though." When Stiles moved to lock the door, the veterinarian added, "I should ask for that key back."

"Sparkles? What kind of person names their dog 'Sparkles'? I'm offended; it's what I am. All Sparkles around the world are offended by this dog," Stiles protested, ignoring the jab about the key, as he always did. "Some of us had to work for that title."

"No, you didn't," he pointed out, rather rudely in Stiles' opinion, spraying the wound with rubbing alcohol. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, maybe I just wanted to enjoy your lovely, mystic presence."

Deaton stopped, turned his head, and gave him a look. "Is that what you're going with?"

Without any further prompting, Stiles caved. "Ok, no. No, I'm here because today is the full moon and we'll be going to—"

"I'll be fine, Stiles," Deaton interrupted, knowing exactly where the conversation was going. "Stop worrying so much. Someone needs to stay behind and keep an eye on everything—you know that. And no, before you ask, it cannot be any of you. I'm not pack. I had mine... once. Now it's time you all found your own pack, together."

"We may need you!" Stiles whined. "What if this woman is kidnapping us?"

"She's not kidnapping you," Deaton explained patiently, quickly tying the last of the stitches. "It's a privilege to even get to meet Althea, Stiles. She doesn't receive many visitors. In fact, she claims to prefer remaining uninvolved with the mundane workings of life."

"What if she's a psycho, though?"

"Stiles, she's a thousand years old. She's a Fae. She's The Fae," Deaton said, a mischievous smile on his face. "Of course she's a little psycho."

Great. Just what he needed on his last vacation before going away to university—another psycho.

"Go home, Stiles. Get some sleep. Rest. Don't worry so much."

Easy for him to say.

* * *

Despite Stiles' trepidation, in the end, it all happened so fast.

He had, indeed, gone home to try to get some few hours of sleep. Surprisingly, he fell asleep without much difficulty, the stress of the day catching up to him all at once, leaving his body weighing a ton all of a sudden. His bed had felt so fucking comfortable and good that he barely remembered getting up and driving to the preserve.

The pack was there, waiting. None of them knew exactly what they were waiting for, but they stood together, eyes scanning the area for the arrival of the elusive Fae.

She never came.

A portal opened two minutes after midnight—an honest to God hole in space—, showing them a large clearing, illuminated only by the moonlight on the other side, and Stiles swore he saw a white rabbit hopping in the distance.

Awesome. They were going to fucking Wonderland—no way would that backfire on them.

Scott stared at the portal, maybe waiting to see if his eyes were tricking him, failing to move until Kira elbowed him.

"Right, yeah, let's do this," he said, squaring his shoulders.

A second later, Stiles looked at Lydia. Where they seriously about to do this?

"You're going to let him alone with her?" Lydia asked, pointing to Scott, who had already crossed and stood at the other side, watching the others go, one by one. By the look on her face, she already knew that Stiles would rather cut his own arms off then to be separated from Scott again.

Stiles exhaled, regretting that whole thing. "No fucking way," he said. "Let's go."

They were the last two to cross, and when the portal closed the second they passed, leaving them basically trapped in God knows where, without a clue on how to go back to Beacon Hills, Stiles felt a weird tingle in the back of his neck.

He turned, and there she was.

Althea wasn't what Stiles expected her to be—and, ok, maybe his mind had gone a bit haywire with the possibilities, and he expected more of a goddess than a human being, but it was still a shock to see her standing there, normal and almost… ordinary?

At first sight, there was nothing magical about her. Black hair, black eyes, medium stature, and a long white linen dress covering her entire body. If Stiles had crossed paths with her on the streets, he wouldn't have looked twice.

"Welcome to my domain, Alpha McCall," she greeted with a wave of hands, her voice loud and deep in the quiet of the night. She spoke directly to Scott, plainly ignoring the rest of them. "It's a great pleasure to see you, at last. I'm Althea."

"Thank you for having us," Scott said, and Stiles could see his best friend trying to hide his discomfort. "I'm Scott, but I guess you already know that…"

She nodded, a small smile hanging on her lips, yet she said nothing else, still staring at Scott, as though she was waiting for him to keep going. Well, she obviously didn't know Scott. If she thought he was going to catch a clue from her weird silence, then she had another thing coming.

"Will you not introduce me to your pack?" She finally asked when it became clear that Scott was more than happy to allow the silence to stretch.

"Oh! Yes, I, of course," he said, tripping over the words in his rush. He gave her a small smile in apology. "Sorry. This is my pack. Stiles, Lydia, Derek, Chris, Peter, Theo, Jordan, Malia, Allison, and Kira. Guys, say hi."

It was much like a parent introducing his kids, and Stiles could see Peter rolling his eyes, but they all intoned a chorus of 'hi' on cue, some more awkwardly than others.

"You're an... unusual pack, I must say," Althea said, eying them closely. "A kitsune, a chimera, a werecoyote, a banshee, a hellhound, a man who's been touched by death, two former alphas, a True Alpha, two hunters, and a spark. Not just any spark, of course, but one who's been touched by a nogitsune."

"That's me," Stiles murmured sarcastically. "Just plain old former-possessed-by-an-evil-spirit me."

"Indeed," she carried on, as though Stiles hadn't spoken at all. "It's not every day one has the opportunity to witness the beginning of greatness so closely. Although… greatness keeps slipping through your fingertips, doesn't it? Very unfortunate."

"Someone is straightforward," Peter commented darkly.

"You are a peculiar group. You all claim to be pack, act as though a pack has been formed and as if you all feel pack bonds connecting you to one another, and still, you're yet to form a proper pack structure. I wonder why. Certainly not from lack of knowledge?" She suggested, her eyes sliding to Peter with a pointed look.

He shrugged. "Our priority has been somewhat misplaced over the past year, I'm afraid."

"Has it? Hun. I suppose so. It's not a good enough justification, nevertheless. Tell me Mr. McCall, had it ever occurred to you that you need to pick your right hand, your successor? Or has the possibility of death not passed through your mind?"

"I've definitely thought about dying many times since I've been bitten, if that's what you're saying. I just never realized I should be the one to choose a second, I guess."

"What about a left hand? Someone to oppose you and your ideas? Someone who isn't afraid to question you and your authority if it came down to it?"

This time the answer came without delay. "That's easy. Stiles has been nagging me since we were four."

Stiles made a face, giving Scott a pointed look. "Excuse me, I don't nag, I explain your mistakes. Your many, many, many mistakes."

"Is that so?" Althea asked, a clear rhetorical question if Stiles ever heard one. "Eleven members, too. Curious. Eleven is a powerful number, Mr. McCall. For a pack, it symbolizes a great deal."

Scott didn't seem all that excited by that, which Stiles thought was a pretty reasonable response. After the truly unexplainable number of crazy shit that tried to kill them, the excitement over magical stuff kinda died down a little. "Like what?"

"The number eleven is a master number. And not just any master number—one of the most powerful ones, I would say. It's about masculine and feminine energy," she said, glancing pointedly at Scott, Kira, and Allison. "It's about a deep connection with the spiritual world and the material world... the plants, the animals, the many beings. More than anything, however, the number eleven is all about balance, which, for a pack, is the greatest possible gift."

"I'm not sure I'm sold on the whole numerology thing," Stiles couldn't help but say, wincing when Lydia stepped on his foot quite hard.

"It doesn't surprise me," Althea said, and she didn't seem offended, so Stiles counted that as a win. "Come, I shall show you to the house. Please, follow me."

* * *

The house was beautiful in the mystical sort of way Stiles had expected Althea to be—a big, two store white house, with a spacious porch on the front, multiple plants surrounding the place. The full moon stood right above the place, shining its light all over space in such a strong way that no other source of lighting was necessary.

No key was necessary to enter, either. In fact, the door didn't even have a handle or a lock, Althea simply pushed it open with her hands, leading them to the living room, where a massive dark green couch occupied the majority of the space. She wordlessly mentioned for them to sit down, so Stiles dropped his body on the arm of the sofa, resting his legs on Chris' lap.

"I would like to learn about you as a pack. From what I've heard, there's been a multitude of supernatural incidents in the past few years. Tell me about your pack," Althea asked, as her body seemed to fold magically on itself as she sat down directly on the floor. "I was under the impression that you had bitten a young beta."

"What is this?" Peter sneered from his place next to Kira. "Bonding moment?"

"Yes," she responded calmly, never sparing him a look.

Scott nodded. "I did, yeah. Liam," he explained, leaning a bit forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. "He's still in school, though. I never wanted to turn anyone, and with him, it kinda just… happened. But then he started to date Hayden, and he's got Mason and Corey with him, and then Brett and Lorilee sort of started to… gravitate, almost, towards him, and things changed." He shrugged, although his expression remained serious. "He wants to be an alpha—I understand."

"He's an idiot," Stiles corrected, unable to hear his bro being so casual about it. Liam would've been dead a thousand times over without Scott to save his sorry ass—the least he could do was show some goddamn respect.

Allison clearly agreed. "He's something."

"Guys," Scott mumbled. "Not this again. He's free to do what he wants, c'mon."

"What? You want to defend him, fine, but I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I like it. Liam's barely in control of himself, and now he wants to be an alpha? It seems irresponsible to let him be in charge of so many lives."

Derek shifted in place. "Scott wasn't that much older when he became an alpha, Stiles."

Stiles frowned at him. Surely, Derek was not comparing the two of them. "You're joking, right?" He asked, incredulous, but when the werewolf only raised an eyebrow, allowing his point to stand, Stiles couldn't let help but snap. "Scott didn't have a choice—it's not like he chose to be an alpha, Derek. Let's be honest, between Creepywolf here." He tilted his head toward Peter. "And all the shit that went down…" The words died in his mouth. "…It's just not the same."

Derek seemed to understand, though. "You mean between Peter's shit and mine, right?" He pressed, self-depreciative.

"Derek," Stiles began, wanting to say something—anything—to wipe that expression from Derek's face. However, it wasn't like he could lie through his teeth and pretend the man had been a fantastic alpha to his best friend—damn, to any of them. He was sure Derek knew of his shortcomings better than he did, in any case. The guy had a serious self-esteem problem.

So he said nothing, and the silence stretched for long, uncomfortable seconds, where no one dared to say a word, less they made the situation even more awkward. And yet again, it was Scott who came to the rescue.

"You did the best you could," he said, and fuck it if he didn't sound sincere. He smiled at Derek, meeting the man's eyes and shaking his head softly, as if to say it was all right between them, before he turned to Stiles. "And I did have a choice," he admonished with a calm voice. "I chose to be an alpha, Stiles. Yeah, there was the whole True Alpha deal that no one saw coming, but, in the end, it was my choice, and I chose to be an alpha, to take control, to lead this pack. Don't diminish my choice like that."

"Deaton saw it coming," Lydia corrected, not without a hint of disapproval in her voice.

It was true, and Stiles wanted to agree, but he was still reeling from Scott's sudden sternness, feeling quite impressed by the whole thing despite his better sense. God, since when Scotty acted so grown up and shit?

"Lydia," Scott warned. "Not now."

His girlfriend huffed, clearly unhappy with the shutdown. She said nothing, though, turning back to face Althea, who was watching the whole thing in silence, a considering look on her face.

"It is true that to be a True Alpha one has to want the power," she finally said. "Your former beta, how does he plan to become an alpha?"

"He doesn't. He's the acting alpha, let's say, and the others seem okay with it."

Peter snorts quietly from the corner. "Sounds like a solid plan."

"Like I said," Stiles repeated. "He's an idiot."

"It that really his plan?" Kira asked, frowning. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Yes! It's fucking dangerous, especially for a human bomb like that kid."

"I'm not forcing any of them to submit to me," Scott stated firmly, not ready to budge an inch.

Althea hummed in consideration, her eyes shifting all over the place as she tried to gouge the reaction of all the people in the room. "They'll need an alpha sooner or later," she said, stating it as the fact it was. "One cannot 'act' as an alpha and hope for the best—that's not the way werewolf's bonds work. I'm guessing this is a recent development?"

"Very," Theo agreed, rolling his eyes. He, out of all of them, looked the least concerned about Liam's fate. "Kid's got all cocky after the Wild Hunt. I give him two months to cave – three, if I'm being generous."

"Weren't you the one who saved his life at the hospital?" Jordan asked, confused.

"Not because I have a soft spot for him," Theo explained. He turned his head in Jordan's direction. "Scott asked me to keep him alive. With the way he hurried to jump into the fights, it was either helping or watching him get killed."

"Doesn't he want to be an alpha?" Stiles mumbled darkly. "Should've let him win his own fights."

Derek's eyes narrowed. "Seriously, Stiles, what's the deal between you and this kid? Isn't he, like, fifteen?"

"Sixteen," Stiles corrected, running a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath, trying to hold the words in, but they stumbled out of his mouth anyway, heavy and bitter. "He almost killed Scott, Derek. What? Am I supposed to like him or something?"

Peter being Peter pointed out: "So did you."

It all happened at once; Stiles flinched at the reminder of his time being possessed by the Nogitsune, Derek growled at his uncle, Lydia snapped at him to shut up, and Scott flashed his eyes at him. Stiles lowered his head, shame clinging to his very pores, feeling the familiar self-hatred pouring in waves inside his mind, drawing out the memories, the images, the sweet bloodthirst that had once surrounded his mouth like candy.

It wasn't a lie. Not too long ago he had been the one literally twisting the sword inside Scott—and worse: liking it, wanting it, craving each whimper of pain that left his best friend's mouth, knowing it had been just the beginning of the chase. Stiles didn't have the moral ground to judge Liam—not after all that he had done—and it grated his nerves, making his jaw clench.

It should be his prerogative to hate anyone who tried to kill Scott. As a brother, that should be his right, if nothing else.

"Shut up, Hale," Chris snapped, his hand going to Stiles' knee. He rubbed it through his jeans, going for a comforting pattern.

"I apologize," Peter said, and weirdly enough, he sounded almost genuine. "It was merely a joke."

"We could do without your jokes." Lydia's voice could cut steel.

Ignoring the weird, heavy mood settled around the room, Althea carried on with her questions: "And what have you learned, Scott, as an alpha?" She stared deep into Scott's eyes, obviously giving a lot of weight to the answer he was about to give.

Scott considered for a moment, and when Stiles' raised his head, he could almost see several possibilities crossing his mind in a rush. Sue him; he wanted to know the answer. Scott finally glanced away from their staring contest, his eyes landing on Stiles. "To trust Stiles," he said, at last, with a small smile. "Even if it doesn't make sense to me, even if I don't understand what he's talking about. We're very different people, and sometimes that makes it hard for me to follow his line of thoughts. It doesn't matter, though, because that's why we work—it's the reason we are Scott-and-Stiles. We just… complete each other, I guess."

"Dude," Stiles whispered, knowing his face was doing a complicated thing as he tried hard not to cry. And, yeah, Scott was right. They were best friends, brothers, Scott-and-Stiles. Even in the middle of all that had happened to them over the years, and despite the distance that inevitably was created between them as more and more shit piled up in their consciousness, that hadn't changed. He didn't want it to.

Scott gave him a tiny nod, acknowledging the lines of unspoken words passing between them before his eyes slid to Theo. "But also that I have to stand for what I believe, regardless of whether the others will agree or not. I'll never stop trying to save everyone I can, even when it's not the easy choice to make—especially when it's not the easy choice to make. People change, and we only get to see that change if we give them a chance."

Theo winced at the words, still unaccustomed with Scott personal brand of sweetness, and rolled his eyes when Kira elbowed him in response.

After that, Scott met Althea's eyes once again. "I learned to lean on my pack; it's what I'm trying to say. I may be the alpha, but it doesn't mean I should do everything myself. It makes no sense, and it's a disservice to the people who have my back. So, yeah, that," Scott said, shrugging in the end, like it was no big deal that he had just admitted all that in front of a complete stranger.

Althea considered the words for a long moment, her stoic face giving nothing away, which had Stiles itching in his seat to say something, anything, to fill the silence. Maybe he should clap. Yes, he should definitely—

She turned to him with a calculating look. "And you?"

"Me? I'm not the alpha."

"You're his best friend, his pack mate, his left-hand. I believe your answer is worth quite a lot, Mieczysław."

He winced. "Must you?" When all he got was a raised eyebrow, he carried on. "Geez, I don't know, lady. The same?"

"Stiles!" Lydia hissed, her lips pursed tight.

"Look, what do you want me to say? You look like you already know the answer, so why are you sitting here, directing this therapy session? I don't do so good with psychologists."

"Are you always this deflective?"

Derek snorted. "Yes. I found that pushing him against a wall usually gets his mouth going."

Lydia threw a smug smile his way. "Funny. Me too."

"Lydia!" Allison called in surprise.

"We're not leaving, are we?" Kira suddenly asked, looking at the dark sky shining outside the window.

"I would prefer if you stayed for the time being," Althea confirmed with a nod of the head. She turned to face Scott "I've arranged the house for your pack. There are rooms, clothes, and food—all waiting for you. I believe we still have much to talk about, and I can see some of you need the rest."

And Scott, the lovely idiot, swept the circle they formed with his eyes, barely registering the curious yet cautious looks they all had on their faces before agreeing with her. "That would be good, yeah. I'm pretty knackered, myself. Is it okay if we make ourselves at home?"

Althea looked barely surprised by Scott's easy acquiescence. "Absolutely. As I said, I've readied the place especially for this occasion, and it would be a shame to see it go to waste, so please, do make yourselves at home here. Nothing is off limits. I'll come back once you all had a chance to get proper rest."

The way she said it, calm and pointedly, as though it was a practiced speech, only served to once more send a weird tingle down Stiles' spine. Something about that place felt both strangle, in a way that made alarms ring inside his head, and, even more concerning, familiar, much in the same way he felt at his own home, where he felt at peace and relaxed. It was a paradox.

He said nothing, though, choosing to remain quiet in his place, leaning almost all the way into Chris' shoulder and barely resisting the urge to place his head in the crook of the man's neck, if only to close his eyes for a moment. His instincts weren't screaming at him to get the fuck out of there as they usually did in a dangerous situation; he would choose to interpret that as a good enough sign for them to stay.

* * *

Even after Althea left, getting up and nearly fucking floating away, all mysterious eyes and flowy hair, no one moved from their places, apparently agreeing in an unspoken consensus that a pack meeting was necessary.

"That was weird," Malia broke the silence, her voice somewhat hesitant. "Right? I wasn't there only one who thought so."

"No, you weren't," Peter agreed with a look. "When Deaton said she wanted to see us, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

Stiles mind was running in the same direction as Peter's, as usual. When the opportunity to meet a Fae who wanted to help them instead of being excited by the idea of murdering them presented itself, Stiles couldn't contain his excitement. It was an excellent opportunity for the pack to make allies, but this…

"Deaton said it might be a possibility, that she would want us to stay for longer than a few hours. I mean, there's not much she can do to help in such a short time, anyway," Scott shrugged, visibly unconcerned.

Lydia narrowed her eyes, in a way that Stiles knew meant business. "Deaton's not pack, Scott. He's refused every offer we've ever made, and, instead, chose to give us cryptic clues whenever he felt like helping us while extending the same courtesy to other packs in the meanwhile—even those who meant us harm, like the Alpha Pack, I might add," she said cuttingly. "'Till when will you blindly listen to his guidance without even our input or knowledge?"

Stiles winced. Scott was not going to be happy with the harsh way Lydia worded her question—that she spoke only the truth would only make it worse.

"Deaton saved all of our lives in the past couple of years, Lydia, including yours. He's done nothing to deserve our distrust."

Stiles gave him a look. "Not true, bro. Not true at all."

"C'mon Scott, don't be so boringly naive," Peter drawled. "Even Talia knew better than to place her unchecked faith into the hands of an unbound Druid."

"So what? You think she's dangerous? That Deaton sent us here to be killed?"

Stiles shook his head. "I have no doubts that she's dangerous," he said. "You're a predator, mate. An alpha. If I can smell the power heavily clinging to her, then you have to as well." When Scott opened his mouth to comment, Stiles raised both his hands, silently asking him to wait. "I'm not saying she's gonna hurt us, or that Deaton knowingly sent us to a dangerous situation. What I am saying, however, is that I agree with Lydia—this is something you should've discussed with us. Even if he's someone you trust, we're still your pack, and we deserve better than to have information withheld from us like that."

"Stiles is right," Allison said, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, her head on her hands. "I mean, I kind of figured we wouldn't leave that quickly, with her having us arrive in the middle of the night and everything, but still..."

"Yeah, still," Lydia snapped.

Without warning, Chris' wrapped his large hand around one of Stiles' ankle, holding just on that side of painful, and it was all it took for him to realize the hunter was carrying a whole lot of tension on his shoulders, sitting straight and flat.

Discretely Stiles leaned his leg more into the man's body, allowing his lower leg, knees, and thigh to come into contact with the other's body. Chris' response was to bend his wrist to accommodate the move, not reacting to the touch in any outright way, but Stiles figured that if his familiarity hadn't been wanted, then Chris wouldn't have had a problem letting him know.

With that settled, he shifted his attention back to the conversation to see that Scott was looking a whole more apologetic and Lydia a lot calmer.

"—shouldn't have. I promise," Scott said, pausing for a second before adding with a grin. "But I do have a good feeling about her. I dunno; she seems cool."

"Let us agree that you don't have the best track record with that sort of thing," Theo, of all people, pointed out, turning to stare Stiles head-on. "What's your feeling?"

"Oh, my. How the tables have turned, hun?" Stiles could help the dig. Sue him, but he figured he deserved that, at least.

Derek snorted, Peter grinned, Chris' hand on his ankle squeezed just the tiniest bit harder, and Lydia rolled her eyes, but Theo? Theo just shrugged, allowing the dig to roll past him.

"What can I say? You were right, even in my thirst to become an alpha I saw that you were the obstacle between Scott and me," he admitted, shaking his head to the side to get the long hair off his face. "It seems obvious to ask."

At that, Stiles took a moment to gloat, sliding his eyes to Scott, mentally patting himself on the back. He had promised to protect his best friend until the end of the line, being his bastard, distrustful self to the best of his abilities, no matter how many times Scott tried to convince him otherwise. And despite Scott's earlier words, where he too had admitted to needing that, it was Theo's words that finally got the satisfaction rushing through his system.

Damn if it wasn't nice to be alive to hear those words after all the shit they went through.

"Don't go getting him all big-headed," Derek warned, although his smile betrayed him. "His ego is big enough as it is."

"Oh, shut up, Sourwolf," Stiles said, turning to answer the original question. "As for Althea… I don't know. Is it weird if I say that I feel like staying and running, both at the same time?"

Allison nodded. "Yes."

"Also, it doesn't really help us," Lydia pointed out.

Stiles shrugged, trying to explain as best as he could. "It's weird. Everything about her seems off to me—like she's hiding something. Something big. And that makes me itchy. With our track record, this is enough to get me suspicious, if nothing else. At the same time, though, I get the strangest feeling that this is where we're supposed to be."

"What are you? A third grade psychic?" Peter asked, rolling his eyes. "At least pretend to make sense."

"Whatever."

"We're staying," Scott decided, getting up from the couch and stretching his entire body, hands over his head and head tilted to the side. "It's late, and we need sleep. If any of you still feels like leaving in the morning, we'll discuss. How does that sound?"

"Right now?" Malia asked, also getting up. "Fucking good. I want to sleep for, like, sixteen hours."

Stiles nodded in agreement, having no further arguments to defend either side, and just decided to roll with it. There was something about Althea, something about that house, that land, that unnerved him, and he wanted, needed, to know what it was.

Was it a smart decision? Perhaps not, but no one had ever accused Stiles of being a reasonable person, and he wasn't about to start now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so maybe I took a little longer than I said I would to come back. BUT, here I am, with another huge chapter! That has to count for something, right? Right? No? Okay, I'll just.. you know, leave now. Bye.

It didn't take long for the other shoe to drop. 

Stiles couldn't sleep. Not on a new bed, at a strange place, without knowing _exactly_ what's going on. So he tossed and turned, too awake to even close his eyes for a second, until Lydia finally had enough and kicked him out of bed, telling him to stop interrupting her beauty sleep. The sun was almost rising, and Stiles _needed_ to know, which is how he ended up walking out of the house and into the woods surrounding it, following gentle whisper of magic coming from the property line. 

And that was where he found them. 

Gigantic, black runes. Dripping in powerful magic—far too powerful. 

The runes were nothing like Stiles had ever seen before, but it took him less than a few shocked minutes to understand what he was seeing, what it meant. After that, he ran—back to the house, back to his pack. 

Maybe he yelled, maybe his panic alerted the others—Stiles didn't know, and he didn't care. What mattered was that they were all there when he shoved the door open and all but stormed into the living room, panting for breath, muscles trembling.

"Runes," Stiles said, looking at Scott. "There are runes forming a circle around us, Scott. Carved on the ground."

Lydia inhaled sharply. 

"Runes? Stiles, can't you—," Scott began, frowning. 

"Dude, are you kidding me? I've never seen them in my life. Who knows how many centuries old they are. I tried to sense them a little, but… the amount of magic weighting on them is like nothing I've ever heard."

"Wait," Malia asked, crossing her arms. "What does that mean?"

Peter rolled his eyes at his daughter, even as they all say the muscles in his jaw locked tight. "She trapped us here. There's no way out."

"Why would she want us here?" Theo asked.

"She's an old as fuck Fae, Theo. We don't know shit about her—maybe she thinks it's funny."

"Actually, I think she's trying to help us," Stiles admitted, dropping his body on the couch behind him. "There's a feeling… I don't know. I think this is her idea of a helpful exercise."

"She wants us to figure out how to get the hell out of here together?"

"No," Stiles shook his head. "She wants us to be a proper pack, remember? We're in a controlled environment with no outside interventions. This is the grown-up version of parents who put two kids who were in a fight sitting together and demand they stay there until they hugged it out."

"So we should just sit in this house until the psycho decides to let us go?" Allison asked.

"Not like we have a choice here, babe," Scott said with a wince. "There's truly nothing we can do—she could wipe us all with a swipe of hands. If she wants us to stay here, that's what we'll do."

Derek winced. "We have to stay in this house all summer?"

"All summer? You think she'll keep us here for months?"

'"What is a couple of months for someone who has lived for centuries?" Jordan asked, quite reasonably.

"I don't think I wanna stay here," Kira said. "This is weirding me out."

Chris crossed his arms over his chest. "It doesn't look like she left us with many choices."

"No help is ever for free," Peter said, rather darkly.

"I agree with doom face, here. She's not doing this out of the goodness of her heart."

Lydia tilted her head, with a considering face. "What do you think the point is, Stiles?"

"What?"

"C'mon, you know what I mean. She's keeping us here because she wants us to learn some lesson, it's obvious. Which one though?"

"How to be a pack," Derek stated.

Allison frowned. "That doesn't make sense. We've been pack for years now."

"Have we?" Stiles asked, his eyes lowered to the floor. Had they, really? Or had they done what they could to survive while tripping over their own feet?

"Stiles…"

"No, Scott, it's the truth. We did what we could as teenagers, but as the pack who's gonna watch over an entire town? No way, dude. Other than you, me, and Lydia, the others came and left more than stayed."

This time it was Derek who said. "Stiles…"

"What?" He asked, narrowing his eyes. "You gonna pretend that you didn't leave?"

Derek said nothing. He had nothing to say, Stiles thought uncharitably, feeling the tension rising inside him as the situation became clearer. It was bullshit—the whole thing was complete and utter bullshit. Of course the crazy Fae left them trapped inside a house, in the middle of nowhere, without means of communications, and of course his pack would freak out about it, would fray at the edges.

Derek said nothing, so Stiles turned and left the room, the house.

It was bullshit.

* * *

The days passed.

At first, most of them spent their free time roaming around the forest surrounding the house, stretching their legs, while also clinging to the last thread of privacy they could muster. However, after a week, almost as if she had been waiting for them to relax and get complacent, the rain started. Not just any rain, though. Fucking pouring rain, with thunder and lighting, rumbling over their heads day in and day out, without a freaking minute of peace.

Stiles knew precisely what the message was. Either resolve your issues by yourselves, or I'll have to get involved. It was bullshit, considering Althea was the one forcing them together in the first place. However, in the back of his mind, he could help but agree that it was for the best. They needed that. They needed to resolve their issues, and it needed to be soon rather than later.

"This rain is never stopping, right? We'll just stay trapped inside this stupid house."

"It could be worse," Jordan tried to reason, although he too looked uncomfortable with the idea of closed spaces.

"This is bullshit," Stiles announced, frustrated with their lack of understanding of the situation.

"Yeah, it sucks," Malia agreed, as though Stiles had been merely adding to their never-ending lamentation.

"No, you guys are the bullshit," he corrected, pacing in a circle. For a moment his eyes met with Scott's, and he could see his frustration mirrored in his best friend's eyes.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. We're a pack. Pack is about family, about friendship, about wanting to be together and sucking to be apart. God, we've been here for days, and you all make it seem like it's the end of the world. No wonder she trapped us here—we're barely a functioning group, let alone a pack."

That time, it was Scott who got up and left. Stiles went after him, not sparing the others even a fleeting glance.

He trailed after Scott like a puppy. He knew he was far too close to his best friend's back, leaving barely any distance at all between their bodies, and he understood that it made no sense—it wasn't any less likely that something would separate the two of them if he walked a couple more steps behind. It was an irrational fear—Stiles needed the constant confirmation that his pack was still there.

That the people he loved hadn't disappeared.

Scott said nothing about it.

Stiles was left wondering if that was better or worse.

* * *

It took him hours to go back. Hours to face the music, so to speak.

What was waiting for him was not the fight he had imagined in his head—not even close.

Lying on the bed—their bed for the time being, apparently—with several open bars of chocolate surrounding her, was Lydia. She was still wearing her dress, but her hair was tied up in an unruly bun, rebellious strands falling around her face, and her heels were throw in the carpet.

She didn't even glance at him when he entered the room, instead, looking pointedly at the chocolate melting between her fingers.

"You know, it tastes much better when it's in your mouth," Stiles said casually. "Or so I've heard."

She turned her head sharply, a full-on glare on her face. "I've already eaten five, Stiles."

"So? You look like you want that one in your hands," he shrugged, pulling his sweaty shirt over his head.

She ran her eyes over his chest, a mixture of resentment and pain crossing her face, and it was all Stiles could do not to cross the room and hug her. Lydia's body insecurities were ridiculous in his opinion, something so far fetched that he had still had trouble coming up with the right words to say whenever she got in one of those moods.

"Ugh, I hate you," she said, twisting her lips, yet Stiles knew the anger wasn't directed at him. She didn't hate him, she hated the whole situation where he had just come back from a long run, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff her face full of sweets. "Go shower."

"You are the one who's gonna get the bed dirty from melted chocolate if you don't get to eating that. It _is_ a deadly sin to waste chocolate, Lydia. Hasn't anybody taught you that?"

She pursed her lips, but her eyes shifted down. "I had too much already. I should go train or... something," she said, the words so misplaced coming from her it was almost comical.

"Lydia, we've dealt with more shit in the past four years than most people will ever deal with in their entire lives," Stiles reasoned, crossing the room to lean on the doorway of the bathroom, throwing his wet shirt inside. "If some days you want to mop around and eat, no one will blame you. Stop holding yourself to such impossible standards. You can still be incredible and have moments of weakness."

"That's easy for you to say. You, Theo, Derek, Allison... You get stressed or nervous, and the first thing you guys do is exercise," Lydia snapped, sitting up and waving her hands around. "I feel bad, and all I want to do is stay in my bed and stuff my face with the shittiest crap I can get my hands on. Which ends up with me feeling twice as stressed out, instead of being any help."

"Scott does the same thing, Lydia. Since we were kids. He feels even remotely sick? He'll spend an entire weekend playing video games and eating ice cream and nuggets."

Lydia grabbed an unopened chocolate bar lying beside her and threw it at him with her free hand, nailing his head and ignoring his yell of protest. "Shut up. Scott's a werewolf. He'll never gain a single pound because of his binge eating—unlike me, who will soon not fit into any of these stupid clothes."

Stiles cannot believe they are even having that conversation. It's stupid and pointless. People valued so much the exterior when it was but a bunch of skin put together randomly.

"Come here," Stiles demanded, grabbing her arm, pulling her up and toward the bathroom with him. She made a noise in complaint, dropping the chocolate in the process of struggling against his hold.

Stiles refused to release her, however, until they both entered the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. "Take off your dress," he ordered.

"I don't—"

"Lydia, just, for the love of—just do it, alright? For once in your life, work with me here, ok?" Stiles begged, trying to make his point.

It was a gamble. Lydia looked more willing to hit him and storm out than she did to comply with his request, but Stiles was nothing if not a risk-taker. There was a point to be had there—a picture he needed to show her, sooner rather than later. So he shifted to stand behind her, meeting her eyes on the reflection and waited.

Someone was bound to give in.

After many tense moments, in which she crossed and uncrossed her arms under her chest, seeming like she was arguing with herself, Lydia exhaled strongly and reached for her dress. She pulled in over her head, much in the same brisk way he had done it with his shirt a few minutes before, taking the time to fold it and rest it next to the sink.

Lydia stood in only her pink bra and panties, meeting his eyes once again. "Well?" She asked, and her tone made it clear that she was one wrong word away from a meltdown.

Good. Stiles worked well under pressure—he always had.

He stepped to the side, so she could see him in the mirror as well. "Look at us. What do you see?"

She frowned. "I know what I see, Stiles. A person who gained eight pounds in the last six months and thinks she can still gorge in the way you've just seen me do. Is that what this is about?"

Stiles frowned back. "Look closer."

Unable to back down from a challenge, Lydia straightened her posture, her eyes slightly more clinical as it studied the bodies reflected there. "A couple of young adults, caucasians, one reasonably taller than the other, no immediate signs of body defects. I'm clean, you're gross from sweat. I've put on weight and you..." Her eyes went a bit softer as she traced his features. "You have moles. Many. Too many."

Lydia turned, so she faced him instead of his reflection, her hands going straight to his chest. "You have scars. Not too noticeable at first glance, but visible if one takes a second look. On you clavicle," she pointed out, tracing the knife wound there. She proceeded. "On your shoulder, on your hips. I know you have two on your back."

"I do," Stiles agreed easily, not giving her anything else.

"What's the point here, Stiles? It's not the same, you know it's not. I don't have a problem with your body," Lydia explained, her voice tired now, like the fight had left her at once.

"But could you?" He asked, and when she looked puzzled at the question, he added, "If I change—and I'll probably change a whole lot, with the luck we have—then what? What's the limit that you have for me? When will you have a problem with my body?"

"I won't!" She said, offended. "I love you, and I would never give up on you because of something as ridiculous as a scar."

Stiles gave her a tiny smile. "Then why do you not trust me and lean on my just as heavily? Have I not loved you for years?" He asked, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against his chest. "Believe in me when I say that this—this body—is precious to me because it is what holds you. Lydia Martin. And that's not conditional. I find you the most attractive woman alive, and numbers on a scale don't determine that."

Lydia looked at him, and her eyes had a glossy shine to them, and she squeezed back just as tightly, their naked skin pressing together. Stiles kissed her forehead, knowing precisely what she was thinking about.

"If you want to lazy around and eat, baby, you do that. You're not depressed, or sick—you're dealing with a shitty past couple of years, just as we all are. I cannot stress enough how much I do not mind. I don't care much for appearance Lydia, that's always been your thing and not mine. I was the scrawny kid whose best friend was an asthmatic goofball, and I was fucking delighted by it. Tall, short, skinny, or fat, that doesn't, and shouldn't matter. I love you because of who you are."

"You're such a dork," Lydia accused, but she rested her head on his sternum, her heart pounding in her chest so strongly he could feel it.

Stiles laughed. "You are the one who's with me. I think that says more about you than it does about me," he said, kissing the top of her head. God, he hoped at least a quarter of what he had just said stuck with her.

Lydia breathed and whispered. "Jackson used to say that—"

"Jackson is an asshole," Stiles cut with a much-too-wolfly growl. "He had enough insecurities to scare even the most professional therapist alive, and he dumped all that onto the lap of whoever was closest to him. You do _not_ have to live according to his bullshit views on body and worthiness."

"I don't, do I?" Lydia breathed once more, and it seemed to be the first time she considered that.

"You don't," Stiles stated firmly, as though he could declare it law by force of will alone. "Fuck Jackson."

Lydia kissed his stomach. "Fuck Jackson," she agreed, her lips never leaving his skin. "You're salty."

"I need a bath," he said, a grin threatening to make its way onto his face. "Since you saw fit to rub yourself all over me, you require one as well. Perhaps I can tempt you to save the planet's resources?"

Lydia looked up, an overall teasing expression even if her eyes remained the tiniest bit reserved. This wouldn't be the last time they had that conversation, he knew, but it was all good, because Lydia reached behind her back to unclasp her bra and nodded, saying, "for the planet," with a solemn voice, and Stiles also knew that they would do whatever it took to find happiness together.

* * *

Later, when Stiles walked into Scott's room, a warning that dinner was ready at the tip of his tongue, he saw his best friend sitting alone in the middle of the bed, a couple of sheets of papers in his hand, and the words died out before leaving his mouth.

"Yo, bro, what's up?" He asked, instantly knowing that something was up.

"Come here," Scott called, patting the bed with his hand. When Stiles sat down, Scott shoved the letter—it was obvious what it was from up close—in his hands. "It's my anniversary with Allison tomorrow. I tried to write her a letter—do you think it's awful? He asked, a vulnerable look on his face.

"You really want me to read this?" Stiles asked. "Allison is so in love with you it's not even funny, man. I'm sure she'll love whatever it is that you wrote."

Scott shook his head. "Please. Just—Just read, Stiles. I need a second opinion."

"Okay… Yeah, okay, Scott," Stiles agreed, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "I got you."

"Thanks," Scott said, and that was it.

Stiles lowered his eyes and began to read, hoping beyond hope that Scott had kept things PG-13 and he would still have his appetite after reading the letter.

As he carried on reading, though, turning to the second page when he finished the first, Stiles began to wonder if he wouldn't lose his appetite for entirely different reasons. The letter was painfully intimate. So achingly honest and real—no pretenses or desire to be poetic about it, just the raw honesty that one could see clinging to his frame whenever they spoke.

It was sort of uncomfortable to read it, to be honest. Like Stiles had opened a window to his neighbor's house, uninvited, and was now being privy to their personal life, to their intimate routine. The sort of casual and particular little mannerisms that one could only learn about another with time and intimacy.

Yet, at the same time, it also felt humbling, to have witnessed their love happening and growing right in front of his eyes, knowing that they had fought and bled for it and that they deserved every second they had together.

God, after all they had gone through, their love was more than earned and deserved.

When he finished, Stiles' eyes blurred a little as he tried to fight the tears away. "Fuck you, Scott."

"What? Is it terrible?" He demanded, frowning his forehead, looking ready to rip the paper from Stiles' hands and throw it in the trash.

Stiles raised his head, allowing his brother to see this unshed tears. "It's perfect," he said, smiling when Scott's jaw dropped. "She's lucky to have you, you know? This is… Don't change anything, man. This is it."

"You think so?"

"Trust me," Stiles said, leaning forward to hug him, 'cause that letter deserved a proper hug. "You perfect idiot. Trust me."

* * *

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since Stiles had dragged his heavy body to the furthest away tree from the house he could manage before his morning cup of coffee, sitting down against the trunk, eyes closed, before Scott found him.

And it was Scott. Stiles didn't need to open his eyes to know his best friend's steps.

"Dude, are you ok?" He inquired softly, not even asking before sitting down right next to him. "We could all hear you guys screaming last night. Well, apart from Kira. She slept through all of it, surprisingly."

"Yeah? I figured. We're cool, I think. Or we will be," Stiles said, with a twisted smile. "It's Lydia and me, man. Individually we're complicated, together...well, no one thought this would be easy." He elbowed Scott, although he refused to meet his eyes. "And you know me. I have one hundred and fifty hang-ups about self-esteem. Sometimes I look at Lydia, and it just doesn't feel real."

"Stiles…"

Stiles looked down, ashamed at the words building on his lips. "That's how it started last night, too. I... My fingers, you know? I kept counting them, Scott," he said, deciding to get it over with and just open his eyes, needing to see what Scott would think of all that. "Lydia tried to get me to stop, and God, I tried, but I couldn't, just couldn't."

Scott had that knowing look on his face. "You thought you were dreaming?"

"Fuck, Scott," Stiles grimaced, more than a little disgusted with himself. "Sometimes I feel like I'm still dreaming, and I never woke up. None of this feels real. I'll wake up, look around, and for some reason, my body still feels like a cage." He took a deep breath. "Scott, I don't know how to explain it, 'kay? It's just something that consumes me. I'll be fine one second, and then for no reason whatsoever, I'll look down at my hands and feel the uncontrollable desire to count my fingers, to count everyone else's, to make sure. And I—and I think it kills Lydia a little bit that there's nothing she can do to help me, that no matter how many times she tells me that I'm me, that I'm still here, I can't get myself to believe it. I don't know what to do."

Scott said nothing, waiting for him to continue, probably aware that there was more to it, so Stiles added, almost whispering. "I love her. I love Lydia like I never thought I would get to. After spending so many years of my life picturing how it would be, you know, the two of us together... and now that I have her, now that she's right here next to me, it's better than anything I could have ever hoped for, because this time I know her, and I get the real version of Lydia, the one who's not a figment of my imagination. She's real, and she has a shit ton of stuff that drives me crazy, and I love her."

He took another deep breath, hoping to keep it together long enough to get all these words out. He needed them out—out of his brain, out of his mind, out of him. "Which is why it kills me that I cannot make her happy. I'm trying. God knows I'm trying the best way I can, but I'll go to sleep, and it's inevitable—I'll have nightmares. So many nightmares, Scott, and I'll wake up screaming, and sweating, and aggressive, and I'll try to hurt her because I don't know who she is, and I'm crying. I'm just a mess. That's the truth: I'm a mess. I still am, even after all this time, and sometimes I can see it in her eyes—she has no idea how to deal with this."

"Stiles, I know that you think you have to have all the answers, all the time, and I know a lot of it is my fault," Scott said, and when Stiles opened his mouth to protest, he raised his hand. "No. Shut up. It is, and you don't have to deny it. I know that I've always dumped a lot of the responsibility on your shoulders—to find out what was happening, and how to solve it, and how to make it go away, and I never apologized for it, but I feel like I should. So this is me, apologizing.

I'm sorry that I took you for granted. That I assumed that because you're so smart, and my best friend, and my brother, and you always put up a front like you're alright, like you're okay, that you weren't hurting. I don't want to make this about me, but fuck, getting thrown into this whole supernatural mess was so out of my league, to be honest.

I always felt that you would have handled it better—the whole being a werewolf thing. You were always the thinker, the one coming up with the plans, the ideas, telling me where to go, and what to do. Stiles, I was just a kid with asthma before all of this. And it might be crazy for someone to imagine that if they saw me now, without having seen me all those years, but that was who I was, and the truth was: you were the most exciting thing to happen to me back then. You told me where to go, and I followed you.

"Scott and Stiles, that's how it was," Scott said, sounding so nostalgic and almost reverent with the way he wrapped his mouth around the words. Stiles wanted so badly to say that they were still Scott and Stiles, despite all the shit that had happened since the day in the preserve, but Scott had already carried on speaking. "It was easy for me to just follow that after I was bitten. Kind of. But it was unfair with you, dropping all that weight on your shoulders, and basically putting my life on your hands, and telling you to watch over it, lest I die."

"You did great." When Stiles raised an eyebrow at that, Scott shook his head. "No, seriously, you did. Despite all the truly exceptional things that happened to us, you were there, and you saved my life all the times I needed you to. Lydia loves you—I don't need to be a werewolf to know that. You look at her, you talk to her, and she glows, or something, alright?

The other day, I woke up early, and Lydia was talking to Allison about you. They were sitting on the couch, whispering to each other, like some sort of girl moment that I didn't want to interrupt, so I just sat at the stairs and listened. She was talking about you, and she was crying, you know, at the end. Because you made her feel safe, and you made her feel wanted in a way she had never felt with Jackson.

Don't look at me like that. I get that I shouldn't have eavesdropped on their conversation—I'm not even going to give an excuse, they were whispering and smiling, and I didn't want to interrupt. But yeah, I stood there and felt like a jerk for never having thought about how much Jackson damaged Lydia's self-esteem with his own problems, and to hear her so happy, smelling like excitement and love, telling Allison about you and all the shit you do for her... Like an alpha, that makes me content and proud. Like a brother? It makes me wanna hug you and cry.

Don't allow the past to get in the way of the future, dude. You have shit, of course you have shit, with all that happened. No one expects you to be fine, not even Lydia. Maybe she's just afraid because she sees you pulling away every time you feel bad, instead of allowing her to be there for you."

"When did you get so wise, man?" Stiles asked, feeling the tears gathering on his eyes, ready to roll down at any minute, with the slightest of pressure.

It soothed something deep inside of him that he never acknowledged that needed soothing when Stiles saw that Scott was not in his condition—that he looked concerned, understanding, and even empathetic, yet still no closer to breaking down than he had been when he first sat down. Scott was there for him, giving him advice and being his usual exasperating, hopeful self, and at that moment, he didn't need Stiles to do absolutely anything for him or to pretend he was on top of things. Stiles could break down if he wanted, and Scott looked ready to steady him.

Scott gave him a sorrowful smile. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly what Stiles was thinking, and it saddened him. "I'm ready, Stiles. Let it out," he said, nothing more than a whisper. "I'm here now."

And, without any conscious decision on his part, Scott's words nudged open whichever door he had closed two years ago and kept locked all that time, and it all came rushing out, pouring out, like a wave. Stiles was crying before he even realized it, his head tilting forward, maybe to hide it, but Scott slid closer, gently led Stiles' head to his shoulder, and hugged him.

He said nothing, not a single word. Not even when the grunts of pain came, or when Stiles sunk his nails on his back, or when he mumbled incoherent crap, or when their position became painfully uncomfortable to hold.

They stood there until Stiles' tears ran dry, and he felt tired and gross, unable to get up, so he just readjusted his grip and fell asleep clinging to Scott like a child.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles woke up to the soft noise of music coming from the bathroom. Katy Perry was singing something about a party, and Stiles wondered how he could've fallen in love with a woman who is both an early riser and a Katy Perry fan. It definitely said something about him—he wasn't sure what, but it had to mean something.

Slowly, still trying to come to terms with the interruption to his sweet, sweet sleep, Stiles dragged his body to the bathroom, contemplating whether he should scream at her for waking him up or just steal her cellphone and go back to bed.

All thoughts came to a halt when he saw Lydia, though.

It was temptation. Sin.

The way she moved her body, side to side, gently swaying to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, was more than enough to draw all of his attention. All thoughts about going back to sleep forgotten in an instant.

He wanted nothing more than to stride over there, get behind her, and put his hands all over her. The amount of tantalizing skin being displayed was not something he would ever get used to, no matter how many times he was exposed to her exquisite body. It never failed to take his breath away.

Maybe because this Lydia, the one who danced around the bathroom in nothing but her underwear, eyes closed, playing some random pop song she would never admit to liking, was a sight not many people got to see. In fact, Stiles was pretty sure he was the only one who ever did.

So he leaned on the doorway, careful not to disrupt her, wishing to prolong the moment for as long as it was possible. He refrained from giving in to his own wishes, and kept his hands to himself, fisting them alongside his body in order to distract his mind—a poor attempt at substitution. She was just... Being particularly Lydia at the moment, and Stiles would be damned if he did anything to ruin the moment.

Yeah, they had time for anything else later.

She deserved the chance to be happy uninterrupted for once, Stiles decided. And so, before she could notice his presence and become self-conscious, Stiles turned around and left the room, gently closing the door behind him.

* * *

Stiles walked into the kitchen, dragging his body forward until he could sag against Peter's back, wrapping his arms around his waist.

"Please tell me that there's coffee," he pleaded, his voice muffled by the man's neck.

Peter never tensed against his presence or gave any sign, really, that he was uncomfortable with Stiles' proximity. On the contrary, he seemed to relax under Stiles' weight, pouring more pancake batter into the skillet as he spoke.

"Yes, Stiles, there's coffee. You'll have to go grab it, though," Peter said, nuzzling him as much as possible with the side of his face and his shoulder.

"Don't wanna. Can't move," Stiles grumbled, mentally calculating how many moves it would take him to fetch a mug and the coffee before he could have his precious first sip. He would need to unclasp himself from Peter's warm back as well, which wasn't a priority at the moment, seeing as he was a hot werewolf and Stiles was a very cold little human.

Flipping a perfectly golden pancake—and since when did Peter know how to cook?—he chuckled and reached for a mug settled right next to the skillet and passed it wordlessly to Stiles, not once hesitating before pressing the hot ceramic into Stiles' waiting hand.

Stiles grabbed it by reflex, moving before he could consider what he was doing, and only when he eagerly drank a large sip did it cross his mind that Peter didn't usually share his mug with Stiles.

In fact, Peter was terrible at sharing overall. He hoarded his possessions as though it was about to be taken from him at any given moment—which, given his past, was far from an unreasonable behavior. And it was fine, Stiles respected Peter's space as much as he could, even if he sucked at maintaining a proper distance with the people close to him.

The mug thing, though? He didn't get it.

"You know, it's just a mug," Peter said, his voice not much louder than a whisper. And it was tricky, because his soft voice contradicted his words, indicating that it was, indeed, a big deal for him to be handling people his mug full of morning coffee.

Stiles' took another sip, checking for any signs of tension before he dared to say. "You drink your coffee black. It's disgusting," he declared, stretching to place the mug back on the counter before he reclaimed his place back hiding in the crook of Peter's neck. "I should've known."

It seemed to be the right answer because Peter reached back to pinch his ribs. "Sugar is for children."

And that was it.

* * *

They were sitting around the living room, chatting about life, trying to decide if they wanted to watch a movie or go outside to train for a while. Stiles wasn't paying much attention, though.

Instead, he was watching Derek and the way his eyes were glued to Lydia as he ignored the conversation happening around him. It wasn't subtle. He was looking at her like she was a puzzle he needed to crack in order to save his life, with desperation, longing and confusion, all laced into his deep stare.

It should've triggered some sort of negative feeling inside him, and perhaps before all that had happened, before, well, before all the mess, all the supernatural, he might have. Stiles' would've hated the competition for Lydia's attention and affections, just the way he had always hated Jackson, who took for granted the amazingness that was Lydia Martin. Right then and there, however, the feelings curling around his chest were more complicated than mere jealousy or distrust.

Stiles loves Lydia. He had fallen in love for her many years ago—when the concept of romantic love had appeared to be way less daunting than it turned out to be. She had him since that day, in school, when she flipped her strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and corrected a kid's answer—a slip from her usual aloof persona. And she still had him, all those years later.

But their relationship had settled into a calm and comfortable place, where he knew exactly where he stood with her and vice versa. There were no doubts in his mind that they were in it for the long haul, and so Derek's longing gaze failed to make him feel threatened, and instead ignited a spark of curiosity in his mind that was never a good sign.

The truth was that Stiles' feelings for Derek were complicated. They'd always been complicated.

And it's still a strange experience to watch Derek interacting with the pack, looking soft, and centered, and settled in a way he had never looked before. Instead of the gloomy and angry vibes, paired with the whole black leather jacket and a perpetual glare look, these days he wore sweatpants and henleys more than anything else, seeming to be at ease in his own skin. And fuck if the zen, mature Derek didn't do it for him so goddamn badly that Stiles had to control himself not to sport a stiffy walking around the house.

Not that Stiles spent much of his time watching Derek. Of course not.

_Nope._

No way.

* * *

The problem, however, was that Derek was everywhere, and if it was an ordeal to watch Derek walk, talk, and generally interact with the others, then watching him practice yoga in the mornings was something close to a test of character designed by the devil to see him fail. Whoever taught Derek yoga should answer legally for the crime they committed, Stiles thought, quite uncompassionately. A man that size shouldn't be able to bend in all those ways; it simply shouldn't be possible.

Stiles was alone in the kitchen, sipping his not-warm-enough mug of coffee because someone had already brewed a thermos and he was far too lazy to make another. The sun hadn't even risen yet—no sun, no functional Stiles. And so, he sat on top of the counter, swinging his legs lazily, while trying to drown his brain awake with coffee.

Which was when he saw a terrible scene unfolding right in front of his eyes. Like a train wreck a person could see coming a mile away, yet could do little to prevent it. From his place on top of the counter, Stiles had a privileged view of the balcony—the half-open large glass window did next to nothing to obscure Lydia's body walking toward Derek, purpose clear in her steps.

Derek, who was standing in his yoga mat, getting ready to begin his daily routine, wearing nothing but the sweatpants hanging low on his delicious hips. And Lydia, beautiful, breath-taking Lydia, who had a pair of small sleeping shorts and a tank top, her hands clutched around a rolled mat as she approached Derek. The small distance between the pair and Stiles did nothing to muffle the sound of his girlfriend's words.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Lydia asked, although she was already settling the mat onto the floor, clearly not up for a negative answer. Stiles prayed to whatever deity that watched over him for a miracle.

It was not his lucky day. Derek, the traitor, only shrugged. "You've done this before?"

"It's been a while," Lydia admitted. "I took some classes with my mom."

"Just try to do what you can, I suppose. I can help you if you need," Derek said, a small smile on his face.

And just like that, after only a handful of words being exchanged, the two hottest people Stiles had ever met in his life proceeded to bend down, his eyes zeroing on their asses with so much precision they might as well have been standing right in front of him.

Stiles sat there, painfully aroused and with a thin layer of sweat clinging to his skin even though it wasn't him who was exercising—his nearly empty mug left forgotten by his side as he tilted his head side to side to follow their moves.

He wasn't sure how long he remained where he was, mesmerized, only noticing that the sun was already shining inside the kitchen when Scott and Allison walked down the stairs and interrupted his focus.

"You alright there, man?" Scott asked, sounding actually concerned for a moment before he added, wrinkling his nose. "Ugh, dude."

Stiles nodded, his eyes never leaving its target. "Yeah, I'm good. Fine. Perfect. Terrible."

"What's the pro—," Allison began, confused, only to slide next to him on the countertop and follow his line of sight. " _Oh_. Yoga." And she started to laugh, as though Stiles' suffering amused her to no end.

"I can't believe Lydia joined him. It was bad enough when it was just Derek and you tried to hide your creepy stalking," Scott whined, but he, too, sat down on the counter with them, his eyes going for the yoga duo performance, which, at the moment, included putting their feet behind their heads. "You reek of arousal, you know that, right?"

"Dude, are you freaking kidding me?" Stiles demanded, his voice pitching higher than he would like to admit. "I'm so goddamn hard right now, it's not even funny—yes, I'm aware. Look at them. Look at them, Scott. This is torture."

"They are hot," Allison agreed, grabbing his mug, taking a sip and instantly groaning in distaste. "This is cold, Stiles. Just how long have you been here?"

Stiles shrugged, unrepentant. "I've no idea."

"Man, you're a mess," Scott said, shaking his head.

* * *

It's late. There's no one awake but the two of them, and maybe that's why Scott didn't hesitate when he turned to face Stiles head-on and skipped any pleasantries.

"Aren't you afraid of the possibilities?" He asked, although he already seemed to know the answer to his own question. "I mean, we are all in the same pack. What if doesn't work out? What if you guys break up?"

Stiles shook his head, too tired to pretend. There were a thousand ways he could have dodged the questions, but they all seemed far too much trouble for what they were worth at four in the morning.

"I'm not," he admitted, shrugging. Scott would understand—he always understood. "You know what? I'm not. If you had asked me that a month ago I'd have answered it differently, but now, well, now I'm pretty sure that this is it for me. I have to do this, Scott. If I don't, I'll regret it for the rest of my days."

* * *

Lydia strode across the room, her purpose clear in every line of her face, until she reached the chair Derek occupied, his ginormous body filling in all possible inches of it. His hands were in lap, clearly taking the space Lydia needed. She stopped right in front of him and raised an eyebrow, a pointed look shifting between said hands and his eyes.

Stiles had to hold the grin threatening to make an appearance on his face back, knowing it would be wrong to mock Derek when he looked so honest-to-god confused by the tsunami that was Lydia Martin. Sourwolf looked ready to call uncle before the game even started.

"Well?" Lydia asked with a tilt of the head, apparently tired of waiting for him to get a clue.

Derek opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out of his mouth, and instead, he just seemed like a deer in the headlights, ready to bolt. Distressed, he turned to the room at large, obviously searching for someone, and when his eyes landed on Stiles, he too raised an eyebrow, silently asking Stiles for permission, which was hilarious, really. Lydia wasn't his possession, and far it be from him to allow or disallow her to do whatever the hell she pleased. That was not at all the way things worked between them.

And so, Stiles held his gaze, refusing to give Derek anything, although he was pretty sure his eyes showed at least a portion of the hunger he felt clawing at his insides, wishing nothing more than to watch Lydia and Derek being, well, Lydia'n'Derek.

When Derek began to turn back to face Lydia, Stiles allowed his eyes to slid up, meeting the hazel-green eyes he loved, which at the moment glittered with a sparkle of approval. Clearly, she too took offense with Derek trying to ask for permission.

And if after that Lydia sat on Derek's lap for the rest of the night, well, no one said a word.

* * *

Stiles wasn't stupid—he had been waiting for the ambush. It had only been a matter of time before Derek's complexes caught up to him and he freaked the fuck out. So no, Stiles wasn't surprised when it happened. He was, however, slightly shocked when, one day, the werewolf swung the door of Stiles' room open without preamble and just started to go on and on about how it would be a terrible idea for them to start dating each other.

It soon became clear that Derek had a lot to say. The guy was a mess, pacing around the room, gesturing largely with his hands, frowning so badly Stiles was unsure whether he would ever fully recover his eyebrows mobilities. And because Stiles was a good person, he allowed the older man to get it all off his chest without interruptions.

However, when Derek pulled in a sharp breath and started to go over the same damn points again—still talking about how he was ' _too old_ ', and ' _too damaged_ ', and how ' _there's no way it would work between them_ ', and ' _Stiles should take it more seriously, 'cause it isn't a game_ '—, Stiles decided he had had enough.

"You know what was the first thing Scott said to me when we were six?" He asked Derek, cutting the man mid-sentence. He also didn't wait for an answer. "He called me an idiot for not knowing how to tie my own shoes and tripping on my feet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Derek questioned, coming to a halt in front of Stiles. "You only like people who are assholes to you?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning forward until he could rest his elbows on his knees and lock eyes with Derek. "What I'm trying to say is that I don't want to do the polite thing, alright?" He explained calmly. "I like people who make me feel challenged, unsettled and perhaps a little schooled, you know? Stop acting like you're the only one damaged here." He paused, allowing the words to sink in. "I want to sit down with you for seventy-two hours straight, picking you apart just to see what you're made of underneath this veneer of control and grumpiness."

And it was true, Stiles did want that. His instincts were always to prod, and poke, and scratch until there was nothing left underneath his fingers but the fucked up honesty of people. The need only amplified when it came to those he wanted, craved.

When Derek failed to fill in the silence, Stiles added. "I want to make you uncomfortable, to pick a fight, to choose a random subject we can argue about and see what side you're on, just so I can defend the opposite side, throwing facts, data, and arguments in your face—maybe even stuff I don't actually believe in—just to see how you'll react, what you'll say," he admitted, and he's sure his eyes are _burning_. "That's what I want, Derek."

Then he got up, walking until he could whisper the next words into Derek's ear.

"And you? What do you want?"

* * *

The empty couch was decent sized and way more comfortable than the cold, hard floor, yet, weirdly enough, Jordan was sitting right on said floor, leaning against the couch, his legs crossed so that Malia could rest her head on top of them. They looked cozy and relaxed, with Jordan running his fingers lazily through Malia's hair while she spoke about some weird dream she had.

Maybe a month ago Stiles would have at least hesitated, but the time for doubts had long passed, and he was tired of trying to pretend he didn't care for these people so much that it almost ached, so, instead, he ignored his previous plan of taking a walk and sat down opposite to Malia, by Jordan's side. From there it was easy to lie all the way down, settling his head on Jordan's other thigh, his head brushing against Malia's for a brief moment.

Stiles never interrupted her story, and she never stopped because of him, only acknowledging his presence by shifting back the tiniest bit so Stiles could settle sideways, his head bracketed on Jordan's stomach, putting her in his sight. That way, she could stay closer to Jordan's knees and face both of them in the same direction.

"...and it was pretty weird, too. It makes no sense for me to be dreaming of places I never been to, but I did. I knew it was Thailand, even though I have no idea why. I mean, there wasn't a sign saying it was Thailand or anything, but I still knew that's where I was, you know?"

"You wanna go to Thailand?" Jordan asked when it was clear she had nothing else to say.

Malia closed her eyes. "I guess. I haven't been anywhere. I love being here, having the pack, and the whole thing with Da-Peter... it's not that I don't want that, I just..."

"Hey, you can travel wherever you want. The pack will still be here, and you'll still be ours—that's not up for debate. It's called a vacation, and we all deserve some, now that we actually have the time for it," Stiles interjected, nudging her nose with his. "I mean, not now that we are trapped in this house. Which we are, I mean, still trapped, but you know, we'll leave, eventually, someday, hopefully soon, and you should go to freaking Thailand—if that's what you want."

"And maybe learn some new recipes for us," Jordan agreed, setting this other hand on Stiles' shoulder, giving him a little squeeze. "I never had Thai food."

"I don't know how well I'd do without you," Malia admitted, looking directly at Stiles. "You're still my anchor—you'll always be my anchor. I could be dangerous that far away from you. I was definitely dangerous when you weren't here."

"Stop that. I was kidnapped, taken, I don't know, but you can't judge based on that. We were all messed up, and worried, and fucked up—you weren't alone on that," Stiles said. "You'll be fine now. We have phones, and Skype, and whatever it takes, ok? I'm still here for you no matter what it is that you need me for."

"You want to go alone?" Jordan asked. "I agree with Stiles. I think you'll do fine on your own—you've proved that you can control yourself when it matter—but if this is a concern for you, then maybe take another pack member with you. The bond might make things easier."

Stiles nodded as best as he could in his position "What the hot stuff said. I agree."

Jordan pinched his arm, and Malia laughed, and suddenly Allison came out of nowhere, also without a hint of hesitation on her face as she snatched a pillow from the couch, settled it right next to Jordan's legs on Stiles' side, and arranged herself in the curve of his body, her back to Stiles' chest.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Allison's waist and pulled her even closer. "I mean, I could go—"

"No." Malia shook her head, although it was more like hitting her nose against Jordan's leg. "Don't get me wrong, I want to say yes, I'm scared to death of being separated from you again, and maybe that's the point? If you go with me..."

"Then you'll never know if you can deal with it on your own," Jordan finished off, and Stiles looked up just in time to see the man's lips curving up in an understanding smile.

"What's the deal?" Allison asked.

"I guess I want to… travel? I want to see Thailand. I don't know if I can handle the stress without a traveling partner. I still struggle without Stiles."

"Really?" Allison lifted her head from her pillow, and her voice pitched in excitement. "Are you going for a more traditional stay at Bangkok or is the route open to negotiation? Because I've been reading about the history of Asian hunters, and Ayutthaya it's relatively close to the capital, and it's been marked as a reference city for hunters throughout the XVII century. I'd love to go there."

"You think it's a smart idea to go with a shape-shifter to a place like that?" Malia asked, unconvinced.

"Why wouldn't it be? Like I said, it's a historical place, not a modern meeting place for hunters. And even if it were—if I had to go with someone to face unknown, possibly dangerous people, I'd be happy to have you next to me," Allison said, lying back down and reaching for Malia's arm, giving her a supportive squeeze before dropping it. "We'll ask Scott, to be sure, but I'm pretty sure he'd be fine with us going."

There was a spark of mischief and excitement shining brightly in Malia's eyes, and Stiles could see that the possibility of having someone, of Allison tagging along with her, calmed some of her concerns. That time, when she opened her mouth to speak, Stiles could see an agreement coming even before the words were out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peaks from behind the couch* *waits for the room to be empty* *drops the chapter* *runs before someone hits me* 
> 
> Sorry?


	4. Chapter 4

It felt like Stiles had barely closed his eyes to sleep, Lydia sprawled all over him like an octopus, her head resting on his chest, her arms and leg over his, effectively trapping him in place, when footsteps woke him up.

He jerked awake, frightened by the sound of movement across the room, dislodging Lydia from her place in the process of sitting up.

"W'at up? Lydia mumbled, sliding off his chest yet refusing to open her eyes.

Stiles didn't answer, too busy staring at the shadow leaning against the end of the bed. His heart pounded inside his chest, and he wondered just long he could handle the stress of that life before his family history of heart attacks reared its ugly head.

Instantly, though, he was awake and aware. Something was wrong. "What happened?" Stiles asked, his mind going a hundred different directions already, wondering what could've gone wrong in the meantime since he had gone to bed.

Derek said nothing, still standing where he was. Stiles could feel the tension clinging to him, even though he could see very little in the dark room.

"Sourwolf?" Stiles questioned, pushing his body up and leaning even further forward. "What up? You're scaring me, man."

Finally, he spoke. "Um. I- forget it. I'm sorry for waking you," he whispered, his voice barely audible to Stiles' human ears. "I just... wandered in..."

Stiles exhaled. "Shit, man. Don't do this to me. I got a weak heart," he said, throwing his body back against the headboard of the bed, trying to pace his heartbeats.

Derek gave a step backward. "Go back to sleep," he ordered, ignoring the fact that he had been the one to wake Stiles in the first place.

Did he really think he would get off that easy, though?

"No way. Don't you dare give another step back," Stiles demanded, hoping his voice sounded more than a half mumbled, incoherent grumble. He patted the small free space of bed next to him. "Come here."

It took sixteen breaths before Derek obeyed, silently sliding closer, and closer still until he stepped into Stiles line of sight and he could sit at the edge of the bed. And really, _now_ the guy chose to move without making a noise? If he was trying to convince Stiles that there was nothing wrong with him, Derek was doing a crappy job of it.

He looked so uncomfortable, however, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, perching so near the edge of the bed, it barely sunk the mattress. Derek looked one wrong word away from bolting. Too bad it was far too late for Stiles to mince words.

He went straight for it. "Nightmares?"

To his credit, Derek barely flinched in response. "Yes."

Stiles winced. "This sucks, hun? I get it. What do you need?" He asked, reaching and squeezing Derek's bicep.

Stiles never got to know what Derek needed, because Lydia, who had been ignoring them all along, spoke instead. "You know what I need? Sleep. That's what I need," she said, scooching back 'till there was a space in the middle. She raised the comforter with one hand, patting the space with the other. "Get in."

Lydia did all that so naturally, barely looking at them, already getting ready to fall back asleep, and something tugged in Stiles' chest. It was their bed, and Lydia—gorgeous Lydia, who still struggled with prolonged intimacy even within the pack—had just invited Derek to lie with them, without hesitation.

For his part, Derek had that deer in headlights expression, shooting questioning looks at the both of them, frozen in place.

"That's not why- I don't think that," he began, probably underestimating Lydia's appreciation for her sleep.

"I'm not repeating myself, Derek. Get in this bed or I'll pull you in myself. Don't think for a single moment that I won't," she threatened, fully opening her eyes to glare at him.

"I'd do as she says, big guy. You don't want to get into this fight with her," Stiles explained, squeezing Derek's arm once again. When Derek remained frozen, Stiles added. "It helps, you know? Not being alone."

"Get. In," Lydia demanded, and Stiles could hear the underlying message being spoken there.

Well, never let it be said that Stiles was above doing the dirty work. He retreated his legs, used the hand resting on Derek's arm to gently push him back, taking advantage of his surprisingly malleable state to shift his gigantic body into place, rolling him into the middle.

"There," Stiles declared, satisfied with his hard work and promptly ignoring Derek's pretend indignant expression. "We can all go to sleep now."

"Great," Lydia mumbled, wrapping herself over Derek, resting her chin at the base of his neck, and reaching with her hand until she could touch the leg Stiles had just throw over the wolf's waist. "Don't wake me up for another six hours, at least."

"Works for me," Stiles agreed, shuffling to get comfortable in the new position. "You good there, Sourwolf?"

"I'm… yeah," he said, as though he surprised himself too. "I'm good. Go to sleep, Stiles."

"Don't tell me what to do," Stiles grumbled, but never got an answer because Derek had already dropped his head on top of Lydia's, burying his nose on her head. Which was okay with him—sleep sounded better than any talk at the moment. Then Derek opened his leg a little, giving space for Stiles to fit his own leg beneath Lydia's, and no one spoke anymore.

* * *

The rain had finally stopped. The fresh air blew and the sun was pleasantly warm, so Stiles decided to take a walk to stretch his legs while he could, hoping against his better sense that Althea would not revoke their walking privileges again by sending more rain as soon as they decided to get a little alone time.

No matter how much he liked being around his pack again, it was impossible not to feel the walls closing in on him as the time passed and he had nowhere to go to.

When he got tired and decided to sit down by a tree to rest, a shadow came from thin air, and suddenly he was not alone anymore.

"I would like your permission to give you some marks," Althea asked, without a word in greeting while also ignoring Stiles flailings as he jumped away from the voice that literally came from _no-fucking-where_.

"You fucking psycho!"

"Excuse me?"

"Excuse you? Are you kidding me? Where have you been?" Stiles questioned, trying to slow down his heartbeat. "For fuck's sake. You trap us here, and then just fucking vanishes. What's up with that?" 

Althea raised a brow. "Your pack needed the push." And that was it. It was all she said.

"You do know that some of them are quite furious, right?"

"Not you, though," she guessed, although it didn't sound at all like a guess.

Stiles sighed. "Not me," he agreed, allowing the matter to drop, just like that. It was stupid of him, but he had no right to complain any further when the scent of Derek's aftershave still lingered on Stiles' skin. "Marks?" He asked when he got air back into his lungs, and his brain processed her earlier request. "Like tattoos? And hello to you, too."

If the change of subject bothered her, Althea didn't show it. "Yes, only made with my blood."

Was that a joke?

" _Why?_ "

"You have a lot of untapped power inside you, Mieczysław," she said calmly. "Power enough to tip the balance in your pack's favor when the time comes, but it is yet to be released. I want to decompress all your available power."

"You truly believe that."

"Yes, I do. Scott might be the heart and soul of this pack, and Lydia might be the brain and spirit, and Peter and Derek might be the muscles and experience, but you... you are its eyes and ears," Althea explained, strangely sounding almost as if she's fond of the people in his pack. "You matter on the most fundamental level to them. You keep them grounded and alive."

"You give me way more credit than I'm due," Stiles corrected, a slip of bitterness coloring his words. "I've done my fair share of damage to this, to my pack. Some days I'm still just a messed up kid with ADHD who's too busy catching up to all he doesn't know to realize the true depth of his ignorance."

"I agree." She smiled. When he frowned, she added, "Were you expecting more compliments? No, I happen to agree. We all make mistakes. What defines who you are is what you do with the mistakes you make along the way, Mieczysław, and not how many times you get things wrong."

As she spoke, curiosity burned in his chest—Stiles needed to know. "Why do you call me by my actual name?"

Instead of answering, though, Althea hesitated for a split second, the smallest frown passing through her face before she managed to school her features back into place.

"Tell me," he insisted, unwilling to allow the moment to pass.

Althea heaved a small sigh. "I knew your mother," she admitted, sliding her eyes up and toward the sky.

He drew a shaky breath. His mother? "What?"

"Yes. Your mother's thoughts were all about you in her time at the hospital, when her disease allowed her moments of clarity. She begged and prayed and pleaded for your safety, Mieczysław. It was powerful energy to send into the universe. At the time, I heard her pleads and decided in your favor."

It shouldn't hurt so much to hear about his mother's disease and her time at the hospital. It shouldn't feel like ripping open a wound that had never truly closed in the first place, letting the blood flow and the bacteria to fester. And still, that's how he felt.

His mother had spent the last moments of her life praying for him, for his safety. What was he supposed to do with that information?

She couldn't possibly be unaware of his emotional shakiness, not standing as close as they were in the silence of the forest, nonetheless, she carried on speaking, perhaps knowing that Stiles clung to every piece of information about his mother as a drowning man clung to a floating device.

"Claudia didn't know what she was asking for, obviously. She was far too mundane, even in her most delusional hours," Althea said, not without a touch of indifference. "You were young and bright, though. So I placed a spark of magic in you, hoping your body would accept it."

"Accept it?" Stiles asked, head spinning. "There was the possibility of me rejecting it?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. You wouldn't have suffered, or anything like that," she shrugged, her long hair falling from her shoulders. "And you did accept it, even if you chose to ignore it for many years still."

"That's…" Insane, he wanted to say. All of that was insane. Even for someone who walked with werewolves, and hunters, and wendigos, that was insane.

Althea clearly didn't share his sense of displacement and carried on speaking, caressing the grass beneath her fingers. "Do you know that that's always the case with sparks? At the beginnings of time, when my people and your people waged wars against each other, a small council decided that we would bestow magic upon some humans, and they would help us maintain the natural balance of life. The magic would be passed on through generations, and they would be a bridge between the supernatural and mankind."

"Druids," he guessed.

"That's correct. Druids. However, you are not a druid. You, my dear, are a spark. Sparks are incredibly rare because they are the result of a direct spark of magic being... placed within them. You were not born with it."

"You decided to honor my mother's desperation for my safety by ensuring I would be thrown into the supernatural?"

"Fate is a fickle mistress, Mieczysław," Althea stated, like she was imparting him with some great knowledge. "You would be part of the supernatural one way or another, regardless of my actions. I simply made sure you would have a fighting chance, that you would be able to protect yourself when the time came."

Still insane.

"This is... I mean, I—"

She turned to look at him, and this time, there was a soft look on her eyes. "That was only the second time I placed a spark in a human child, Mieczysław."

"Am I supposed to be flattered by that?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," she agreed readily. "It's a gift. This much power inside a human body? Almost impossible in any other way. You have no idea the things you'll be able to do with my marks on your body."

"You have to understand my reticence here. After dealing with the supernatural for as long as I have, I've learned to be wary of too-good-to-be-true proposals like that."

Althea smiled widely. "It's good to see some wariness in you, but you needn't concern yourself. If I wanted to hurt you, or your pack, I'd use more direct methods. Surely, by now, that's clear?"

And weirdly enough, it was. Stiles had witnessed her power, he knew a scratch of what she was capable of, and he could extrapolate from that. If Althea wanted them dead, they would've been dead the second they stepped into that place. All in all, it seemed to be in his best interest to listen to her, so without another word, Stiles grabbed the hem of his shirt and took it off.

"Let's do this," he said, only to pause. "Wait. Will there be needles involved? 'Cause I'm not too good with needles, you see—"

"Needles are for humans." Althea dismissed his concern with a wave of hands. "I'll paint my marks on you." She said, and with that horrible explanation, she used one long fingernail to make a deep cut on her palm.

Blood began to seep from the cut and Stiles could hardly believe his eyes. "Wait! Why do you bleed black?"

She threw a small smile in his direction, halting her moves. "Does that surprise you? All those of my people bleed black, indeed. Black doesn't always mean a negative omen."

"This is...Wow. Can I touch it?"

"You may, yes."

Stiles reached out to carefully touch the small pool of blood with his finger, feeling the warm liquid coming into touch with his skin, a black taint in his lighter digit. "That's a trip. Will my blood become—"

"No, you will not become a Fae, don't worry. Your blood shall remain forever the same red shade you were born with."

"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed."

"It is but a color, Mieczysław."

"Sure, yeah," he said. "So, where do you wanna do this?"

"You ask this after you already took your shirt off?"

Stiles refused to blush. "Whatever. We're doing this or what?"

Althea grinned, amused with his reaction. "I'll paint runes all over your upper body. Both arms, chest, and back. Is that acceptable to you? I've heard humans tend to be particular about their bodies."

"You heard? What the— You know what? Never mind. Go ahead. Having tattoos will hardly be the worst thing I've sacrificed since I've joined the supernatural world."

"As you wish," she agreed, dipping her fingers in her blood once more and, without another word, beginning to draw strange shapes on his left wrist.

Stiles observed for several minutes, trying to discern what the runes meant without much success, before the curiosity got the best of him, once again.

"It doesn't take a genius to know you're giving me a lot more power than normal with this," he said, mentioning to the symbols Althea was slowly drawing into his bicep. It was true, even with only one arm partially painted, Stiles could feel a weird rush of fire rushing through his veins. "Will I be able to match a Fae, you think?"

Suddenly, like a switch being flipped, she lost all the serenity that had been comfortably sitting on her face as she grabbed his leg, sinking her fingernails into the flesh, dawning him closer. "I'm entrusting you with a lot, Mieczysław. If you use the power I'm giving you to unnecessarily harm one of mine, I'll hunt you down myself. Do you understand?"

His eyes widened and he rushed to say, "I would never! That was not what I mean, alright?"

She seemed to judge him for a long moment, her eyes searching for something, although Stiles had no idea what, but she must have found it, because she released him, nodding. "Very well," she said, going back to the runes. "As for your question… Sparks are special because their powers are unpredictable. Every human adapts to the magic in their own way, and many do not have the proper guidance to ever do much with their power, anyhow. Fae, on the other hand, grow up with their powers, so they have a big advantage."

Althea shifted her position to sit behind him, starting on his back. "What I'm doing for you, however, is unheard of. Sparks have etched runes into their skins using other methods in the past in an attempt to do for themselves what I'm doing for you—protection and a release of power." She paused for a moment before adding. "I'll give you a few books to read, in order to better explain the properties of Fae blood, but essentially? After today, you're basically limited by your imagination."

"My imagination? Are you kidding?"

"No, I do not think so," she said, quite serious. "If you believe it—if you will the universe to bent to your desire—then you'll succeed. It's as simple as that."

It was too much to comprehend at once, so for the rest of their time together, Althea drew runes on his skin and Stiles remained still, silent, hearing the sounds around him and trying to understand what had just been said to him.

* * *

Althea took hours doing her job, and Stiles knew better than to complain, so by the time he got up and started the walk back to the house, he realized his absence would've been noticed.

That's why it didn't surprise him that the instant Stiles stepped into the house, shirtless and with tattoos covering his entire torso and both arms, Derek was on him.

"Althea?" He growled, halfway to a shift already. Before Stiles could answer, he turned his head back and yelled. "Scott!"

"Wait, I'm not—" Stiles tried, but Derek wasn't listening, too busy studying the marks on his skin.

Scott ran down the stairs, Peter, Chris and Allison hot on his heels, in several different stages of undress.

"What?" Scott barked, his whole face contorted with concern. Stiles repressed the need to facepalm—honestly, since the whole true alpha business, Scotty had the quickest trigger on the planet. He went from calm to mother-hen in two seconds flat.

To make his displeasure known, Stiles glared at Derek. "It's nothing. Derek overreacted."

"Nothing?! Stiles, you have shit covering your entire torso!' Scott very needlessly pointed out the obvious, pushing Derek slightly out of the way to run his hands over said markings.

"It's today groping-Stiles day?" He asked, amused despite his better judgment. "'Cause no one warned me or anything. Not that I'm complaining about you all touching me. Nope. No complaints from me. Not at all."

"Stiles! Explain," Derek said, obviously going for a demand, yet it was only the tinge of desperation shining on his face that made Stiles grasp Scott's wrist and speak.

"Stop, I'm fine. Althea gave me some runes to help me focus my magic and protect myself. They are not the prettiest, I'll admit, but, well, magic is rarely that convenient."

"And you just trusted her?" Allison asked. "The crazy lady who locked us in here? What makes you think she didn't paint something harmful in there?"

His eyes never left Derek's when he answered. "I can feel their power inside me, settling and working. I'm fine. In fact, I feel better than I have in a really long time. Grounded."

"Dude," Scott whined, taking a step back. "Stop scaring me all the time. I'm too young and pretty to die."

"Is that our alpha?" Peter questioned sarcastically.

"Shut up, Peter," they all chorused in a weird, unplanned but beautiful move.

He rolled his eyes but sounded oddly interested when he said, "Those are some powerful runes she gave you. I recognize some of them."

Stiles nodded. "Yeah," he said, still unused to his new body. "Untapped a whole lot of my power, too. I don't really understand why she did that, to be honest. It's not like I asked her to—she came to me."

"How much power?" Peter asked, a fire burning behind his eyes. 

Stiles grinned— a feral, wild thing—matching the man's expression. "All of it," he said. "All of it, Peter."

* * *

Stiles found Derek in their bathroom, fresh out of the shower, a damp towel wrapped around his hips, getting his razor ready for a shave.

There were droplets of water running down Derek's arm, shoulder, waist... Stiles tracked down the path of a single drop, falling from his hair, going down his neck, traveling across Derek's bulging back muscles, and Stiles wanted nothing more than to capture it with his mouth, tasting the freshness of the wolf's skin against his tongue. It was a jaw-dropping scene, and Stiles would be damned if he wasn't going to lean against the doorway and enjoy every second of it.

He met hazel eyes on the mirror. "Let me guess: you find me attractive," Derek said, raising an eyebrow, and it was impossible to miss the flat tone of his voice, the way he almost rolled his eyes at the words. "It's the abs, the muscles. I'm sure the water isn't helping."

And it's ridiculous. Crazy, impossibly ridiculous that in a triad relationship between Lydia Martin, Derek Hale, and Stiles Stilinski, he was the one with the least body images problems. Derek, who had mellowed almost a couple hundred levels since they first met, stood in front of him, nearly naked, clearly expecting to be groped until an inch of his life by Stiles, and if it wasn't so sad, so depressing to trace back to where those issues stemmed from, then it might have been hilarious.

As it was, Stiles' mouth did curl upwards in a fond smile. "You know," he said calmly, his eyes never straying from Derek's. "Between you and Lydia, I'm gonna get a complex."

"What?" Derek demanded, obviously surprised by the direction of the conversation.

"I mean it. Look, I don't know how to better explain this, alright?" Stiles said, raising his hand to cup Derek's cheek, feeling the harsh stubble growing there. "It's not my fault I'm surrounded by extremely hot people all of the time, 'kay? You guys are some weird America's Next Top Model werewolf edition, and I've just been roped along for the journey. Do I think you're gorgeous? Of course. But you can't blame me for that. And it is not, at all, why I'm attracted to you."

His boyfriend was frowning at him, frustrated with his answer. "You reek of arousal whenever you're next to me."

"Is that a problem?" Stiles asked, withdrawing his hand, because that seemed like a weird thing to point out about one's significant other unless said arousal was undesired.

"No," Derek admitted, although it looked like it pained him to do so. "No, I want you to be attracted to me."

"Then what's the matter, big guy? I don't get it."

He looked pained when he said, "I don't want to sound… I mean, Cora says this is me crying my 'white boy tears,' or whatever the hell that was, but—"

"Hey, hey! If it's bothering you, then it's important—don't start that shit with me, Derek."

"It is weird, though," he said, waving a hand down his stomach, mentioning to his almost-naked body. He hesitated, opening and closing his mouth, yet Stiles refused to break the silence, resting against the wall, hoping his expression resembled something akin to patience. "When I was young… with Paige… before all this happened, I wanted to have this body. I worked out, I played basketball, and cared about my image like any stupid teenager does." Derek paused, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "After she died, it became a way to almost punish myself for killing her."

"You didn't—"

"I did," Derek cut, shaking his head. "No, Stiles, I did kill Paige. I've made peace with that, but it doesn't change the fact that I was the one who asked Ennis and who, ultimately, killed her. It was a mistake born of selfish intentions—I wanted to have her forever by my side, and it seemed like the bite was the perfect way of getting that."

Stiles said nothing, afraid that any other interjection of his part would prevent Derek from speaking his mind. He so very seldom spoke that freely about his past, that it was all Stiles could do not to hold his breath and stop himself from blinking, lest he missed something.

"Like I said," Derek carried on. "After she died, I was so angry, so hurt, that it seemed… fair, that I would hurt myself. It was also an excuse to be alone—running, lifting weights, whatever I could do, I did. When Kate showed up, I was barely holding it together, pretending to my family it was all in the past and that I was over it."

Before he could continue, the bedroom door opened and Lydia walked in, bare-footed and with a mug of tea in her hands. Stiles shot her a look over his shoulder, praying she didn't interrupt Derek's moment by breaking the mood. He needn't have worried, though. It was Lydia, and, like always, she just got him, setting her steaming tea down and walking to them until she could slide beside Stiles.

"Do you want me to give you a moment?" Lydia asked quietly. She didn't ask what they were talking about, or whether they were okay, or if they wanted something, and Stiles could kiss her for it, because Derek barely tensed before he exhaled.

"No, it's fine. Maybe you should be here for this, too," he said, but the way he was close to shielding his own middle-section with his arm, curling inwards, said otherwise. "I was telling Stiles about Kate."

"Is this about the way you flinch any time I say something about your body?" Lydia questioned, going for the kill without preamble.

As if to illustrate his point, Derek flinched a little. "Yeah, I guess it is," he agreed. "The truth is that I'm tired of being a boy-toy, of having people fucking drooling over my body and not even giving a shit about who I am, or what I what. Kate did that—and yes, she was the worst—, but she wasn't the only one. Jennifer Blake, even Braiden, despite her best intentions…" He paused, trying to gauge their reactions. "Look, I know how this sounds—"

"It sounds reasonable," Lydia interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Don't diminish what you're feeling, Derek. You have every reason to feel used by the people who did use you. What that… woman did to you, I- Let's just say that I feel glad to have helped to put her down, for good."

"Absolutely," Stiles agreed. "Don't start this bullshit with us, okay? You are allowed to have as many hang-ups as you want—God knows I do. If this is something that bothers you—and it clearly is—then tell us how to help." He breathed, adding softly. "Please."

Derek's hand fell to the side. "I don't hate my body, or anything like that, I just wish people wouldn't care about it so much." He looked at them, his eyes sliding between Stiles and Lydia, and his eyes were intense when he said, "Most of all, I need to know that this isn't what this is about. I get that when you're young things look—"

"Shut up, Derek," Stiles grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Man, shut up. I almost cut your arm once, I've seen you throwing up, bleeding, dying, disgusting and pissed off. We've fought together, we've survived together, Derek. If I wanted pretty abs, I would be licking Danny's right now."

Lydia smothered a smirk. "As if he'd let you."

"I'll have you know that I'm quite the catch these days, Miss Martin."

"Sure you are, sweety," she said, patting his cheek. She turned to Derek, who looked way more relaxed, a small, private smile curling on his lips. "Stiles is right, though it pains me to say. We want you, and it has nothing to do with how you look. I'm not trying to say it's the same thing—not even close, okay—, but I…" She flashed a quick glance at Stiles. "Stiles has some sort of pep talk with me about my body every other month, to be honest. I get insecure and pathetic about the way I look, and I've lived none of what you've gone through. So, please, don't feel bad."

"It shouldn't matter," Derek said firmly, stepping close to her, looking so vulnerable Stiles wanted nothing more than to steal a hug. "It doesn't, to me. How you look has nothing to do with the way I feel—nothing at all."

"I would actually prefer if I wasn't the weird duck in the middle of runway models. If you guys could start working on the whole' letting go' phase, I'd be so much happier eating my curling fries."

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek and Lydia said in unison, slightly exasperated.

Stiles, being the adult he was, showed them his tongue, before he tugged Derek to stand in the middle of him and Lydia. "What? Let's just agree we have mushy feelings for each other and it has nothing to do with bodies, how about that?"

"And you'll tell us if you start feeling bad again in the future," Lydia added, stepping into Derek's arms.

"Deal," Derek agreed, leaning against Stiles side. "I'll- I'll try."

Stiles kissed Derek's shoulder. "Good. And we'll remind you that it was your stellar personality and welcoming demeanor that drew us in."

Derek only rolled his eyes, tightening his arms around Lydia. She raised herself on the tip of her feet to kiss his jaw, whispering whatever into his ear, and it sent a surge of fondness through Stiles so deep he had to take a breath, holding the emotion inside.

When they parted, Stiles admitted, eyeing the razor still resting on the sink. "I wish you would keep this." He rubbed his knuckles softly against Derek's stubble, already mourning for his imminent lost.

"Why?" Derek asked, curious.

Stiles felt himself blushing at the question, but decided to go with the truth nonetheless. "I like the beard burn, actually." There, he said it, trying to keep the images of Derek kneeling between his legs from emerging in his mind.

"Me too," Lydia added sheepishly.

And finally—fucking finally—, Derek smiled. A genuine, pleased, wide smile that showed his white teeth. "Okay," he said, like an acceptance, like an agreement, like a wall crumbling right there and then. "Okay."

* * *

It's a warm sunday morning, and Stiles felt almost too comfortable sitting on the grass, tipping his head toward the sunlight, eyes closed. He wasn't alone, and weirdly enough, that also felt comfortable.

"I gotta say, after the ghost riders, I thought I had it covered, but it's actually going to be weird going back home after all these months. We've been living in almost a literal bubble for three months," Stiles admitted without opening his eyes. "I hope nothing too crazy happened in the meanwhile. Although perhaps that's a little naive of me—it is still Beacon Hills."

"Nothing will have happened, you needn't worry yourself," Althea said with a small, knowing smile.

"How can you be certain?"

"When you leave this place, you'll wake up in your bed, in the day you and your pack were supposed to go through the portal. Not one second will have passed there," she explained, very calmly. "It will be like waking up from a long dream."

It was as though she had pulled the rug from underneath his feet, leaving Stiles' to free fall—no ropes, no ground. A dream?

No, anything but that.

"This is... a dream?"

Althea rubbed his thigh. "You worry far too much, child. Just because it will feel like a dream, doesn't mean it will have been a dream. Do you not feel the grass beneath your feet? Have you not eaten, and read, and spoke, and loved within this place?"

Stiles unclasped his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. "I have a bad history with people messing with my dreams and mixing in with the reality."

"I know that. I also know this is nothing like your experience with the nogitsune. All actions that transpired here originated from your own free will, as well as those of others." Althea gave him a look. "Consider this an alternate reality—or the closest you can imagine to one. You and your pack will all wake up, yet the memories, the feelings, the bonds ... Nothing will be lost in your return. Your fears are unfolded."

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I'm sending you all back soon. Your pack has said and done all that needed to be said and done—for now. I cannot help you anymore—this is it."

It all started to make sense. "That's why we couldn't see past the runes' line. There's literally nothing beyond them, is there? This is some sort of fantasy land."

"I suppose you could call it that. There's nothing special about this place, however. It is but a space I created to serve as a meeting place for us. What you've chosen to do with it, that's been up to you and your pack since the beginning—although I can see how it may not have appeared to be so."

"Yeah, the whole trapping us here was kind of a dick move, go be honest. Which kind of makes it twice as fucked up that I don't feel like leaving."

"I know what you're thinking, and before you ask, no, you cannot stay here. You would not want to, once you've thought about it clearly. There's more to your life than the people trapped in this place with you, is there not? What would you do without them?"

"You're right. Of course, you're right. I need my dad—so badly. It's just..."

"You find comfort in the safety this place provides you. In here, you cannot lose the people you love, which cannot be said for the city you live in."

"And it's stupid. We're alive; we did it. Why am I still so afraid?"

"Being afraid is not a weakness. It's part of life, one that can either paralyze you or be a motivation for your betterment. The greatest learning you should take from this place is that life can be unpredictable and unreliable, yet the people you surround yourself with are what makes the difference between purely existing and living."

Althea eyes locked with his, and when she spoke, the message seemed to sink deeper than anything else ever did before. "You are lucky. Don't ever forget that."


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles realized it was close to the end when he knew—when he looked at his pack and could tell intimate details about the life of each of them while also feeling a fond and warm coil of affection curling around his chest. He just knew. Knew all of them nearly as much as he knew himself—their faults equally as much as their qualities.

He knew the house was divided into morning people, like Derek, and Chris, and Jordan, and the _not_ morning people, like Theo, and Peter and Stiles himself. He knew who liked tea in the mornings and those who simply couldn't function without their first cup of coffee.

Stiles knew that Chris could cook almost like a professional, but that Kira couldn't even fry an egg without burning half the kitchen.

Stiles knew what good mornings looked like for each of them, and how to easily spot when one of them was having a day off. It was second nature now to search for Derek and Lydia on the porch, doing yoga, whenever he rolled out of bed before his usual time, or to wake up to the sound of the both of them showering together afterward—a time Stiles never interrupted, 'cause he understood it was their time together, and it was important, significant, and private in a way that didn't involve him.

He knew to not enter Theo's or Chris' rooms without knocking, 'cause private space was a big deal for them, and Stiles could be tactful when he wanted to—which wasn't very often, but for the pack, he made many concessions. Malia's, Peter's, and Jordan's, though, Stiles strode right in, knowing his presence was welcome whenever, even if Peter made sure to glare at him still, to somehow maintain his image of being a psychopath under the veneer of a functional adult.

The Golden Trio's room he avoided as a rule—as a preservation of his innocence. After all, Stiles was sure his dad would appreciate him coming back to the house just as pure of heart as he had left.

The point was: Stiles knew. He knew that Malia and Allison liked scalp scratches, only with different levels of pressure applied, which he was all too happy to provide whenever necessary. And it meant a _whole_ other deal than when Lydia shoved a brush into his hands and ordered him to brush and plaid her hair—a hard look hiding her true desire.

He knew he could lay side by side with Peter on a couch and argue about whichever topic crossed through his mind at the time, and the man would indulge him, a sneer on his face as he made sure to play the devil's advocate regardless of his personal preferences—just to rile Stiles up, to push him, to force him to defend his point that much more ferociously. At the same time, he knew Chris would always open his door for him when he had a book in his hands that had a paragraph he couldn't seem to grasp, no matter how many times he read it—patiently he would go over it with Stiles, picking the pieces apart until they made sense of what was in front of them. Together.

He knew who he could invite to run with him, and who would twist their noses and look the other way, much in the same way Stiles himself did when Derek invited him to do a heavy work out with Scott and Chris. And, after his run, Stiles never went to Scott for a massage, 'cause his brother was terrible at them and was more likely to rupture Stiles' kidney with the pressure of his fingers than to relieve any tension.

Kira, however, had the hands of a goddess and was entirely open for cookie bribes.

Stiles knew that Theo was never up for a fight and that it felt too closely like regressing to the chimera, who still struggled to settle into a peaceful setting after so many years trapped into the idea of being an alpha by force alone. Jordan, though, could never pass up the opportunity to roughhouse, even if he revealed himself to be a dirty cheater who cheated and went for the nastiest shots possible to take his opponent down.

He knew precisely the days when Scott woke up feeling the weight of the world hanging off his shoulders, spotting the distinct look from afar, and knowing just how close he needed to stay during those days, practically gluing himself to his best friend's side.

On those days, only Stiles would do—Scott would slip through everyone else's fingers, politely but firmly refusing their help, yet all but crumbling in Stiles' arms. Sometimes they would lock themselves alone in a room and spend hours on end just hugging each other, assuring themselves that they were still there, that Stiles hadn't disappeared again. Most times, Scott cried, hard and ugly, sobbing into Stiles' neck, begging for promises that Stiles could not, in good conscience, make.

He knew how to modulate his breath whenever Malia started to lose hold of her inner beast, so that she could have a solid, steady heartbeat to listen to, to follow. Despite his initial internal doubts at being able to be someone's anchor, not understanding how he could possibly ground somebody else when he struggled so desperately to remain balanced six days out of seven, Stiles still knew how to meet her eyes, how to squeeze her wrists, how to hold her desperate stare and assure her, without a shift in his heartbeat, that she would pull through whatever it was that was bothering her at the moment.

He knew to press a gun into Chris' hands whenever he got that vacant look on his face, pulling the man to interminable rounds of shooting, the targets getting progressively further away and trickier to hit as the time passed. It was a control thing, and it worked for Stiles too. Chris needed to feel he was in control because almost his entire family had died in front of his eyes, ripping the very ground from beneath his feet and switching his whole world view in a matter of months. Stiles needed it to remind his treacherous mind that he was still him, that he was the one in control of his actions and his decisions, not anybody else.

On most of those days, it was Allison who searched for them in the woods, following the sound of gunshots until she reached their makeshift range, prying the scalding hot guns from their hands, a look of understanding settled on her face. She would then grasp them both by the wrists and lead them back to the house, going straight to the kitchen—always the kitchen—to feed them something warm.

In return, he knew to give Kira her space on the days when the kitsune felt overwhelmed by the events she had outlived but not came out from unmarked. Her screams had a weird way of raising the hairs on the back of Stiles' neck, and boy, were they loud. When she shouted at Allison and Scott—the only two brave enough to withstand that storm—it was like the whole house shook under her power. Holding it in wasn't her deal—Kira needed to put her feelings out, and when she did it, she was a hurricane, her mouth running loose and sharp as a whip, which was the reason she isolated herself with her partners.

Last of all, Stiles knew he loved them. Loved every individual with all particles of his body, in a real, clumsy way which only came with maturity and time. Yet impossibly, even more, he loved the group, the family, the net, the pack they constructed together.

Stiles would be loyal to those people to the day he died, would risk his life and his sanity for them without thinking twice, firm in the belief that they would do the same for him if necessary.

He knew the lesson they had to learn there was already learned. The message was received. Mission accomplished.

Althea gave them all there was to give, and for that, she had his eternal gratitude.

And that's why he knew it was time to go.

* * *

Stiles was ready to go. He missed his dad, and Melissa, and his Jeep, and his life. It was time to go back to the real world, and he was ready—they were ready.

First, though, there was something he had to do. Which was why he had wandered a bit to find her, knowing he couldn't leave without getting his answer.

"What will be the first thing you'll do out there?" She asked as soon as they crossed paths, with a curious tilt of the head.

"Get ourselves a house and ward the fuck out of it," Stiles admitted. "Scott may be our esteemed alpha, but my house was always the meeting point, and that's not gonna change. With Lydia and Derek with me… well, I doubt a small place will do."

He also had the feeling that, once back into Beacon Hills, Derek wouldn't rest until he had rebuilt his family house in the preserve, so there was that…

"I see," Althea said, the corner of her mouth curving upwards ever so slightly.

Stiles shouldn't ask, knew better than to expect a positive answer, but the words were sitting on the tip of his tongue, and he had always been terrible at self-control. He looked at the distance, where he could imagine the runes painted on the ground. "You know— Do you think that, maybe, you could teach me about the runes—"

"No," she denied with a firm shake of the head. "I don't think so. As you once said, these wards keep you prisoners in here. That's not what you want in your home, is it? To be prisoners, kept inside, with no way out?" She raised an eyebrow, daring him to agree. "No. Your goal should be to keep others out, not you trapped inside. Focus on that, Mieczysław. I have no doubts; you'll find a way."

Stiles exhaled, lowering his chin to his chest. She was right, of course. He shouldn't have even considered putting such wards around his future home, not when he could feel the massive, overwhelming power oozing out of the runes, not when he knew better than to mess with anything closely resembling that, but…

How could he not think about what had happened to the last Hale house? How was he supposed to ignore all the crazy, dangerous, bat-shit-insane things they had witnessed and sleep comfortably at night in an unprotected house? How could he leave the people he loved, people he swore to protect with everything he had, vulnerable to the whims of fate?

Althea's cold hand touched his chin, lifting his head until they could lock eyes. "Don't worry so much, Mieczysław. I promise you the worst is behind you. There's no point in living in fear."

Stiles breathed in, breathed out. "Thank you," he said, placing his hands on top of hers. "For all of this. Thank you."

"You're welcome, my dear. You're welcome," she smiled. And this time it was a full blown smile, wide across her face, and it was blinding in its power. "Now, go. I don't want to see you again."

He laughed at that. "Geez, okay. I get it. Goodbye, Althea."

"Goodbye, Mieczysław."

He squeezed her hand one last time before turning to where the others were waiting for him, eagerly waiting for the moment they would be released back into the real world. They were all watching him, several different levels of anticipation stamped on their faces, and Stiles burned with how much he loved those people.

Malia was perched on Peter's back, her legs wrapped around his waist and her head sitting on his shoulder. Chris stood shoulder to should with Jordan and Theo, the three of them easily settled into a comfortable silence. Derek had his arms wrapped around Lydia's middle, allowing her to rest against his chest. And finally, Scott had Allison and Kira draped on each of his arms, a dopey smile on his face. When Stiles smiled at his best friend, Scott's eyes flashed red for a moment in recognition.

There they were—his pack.

"Oh, and Stiles?" Althea called back. He stopped, turning to face her again with a questioning look. Since when did she use his nickname? "Don't forget to leave your door open. You never know what treasures might wander in."

With those last words, she waved him goodbye, vanishing in a puff of shadows. One second she was there, and the next she was gone, taking with her the oppressing weight of the wards. Leaving them free to go.

_Free to live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… that's it?! I'm so emotional about this story! It took me so long to write that I almost feel protective of it, in some weird way. Anyway, I've been thinking about a sequel, showing their lives a few years later—I actually have it sort of overlined… so do let me know if that's something that would interest any of you, okay?
> 
> As always, comments and reviews are majorly appreciated. Xoxo.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to post the next chapter this weekend, okay? 
> 
> I hope y'all liked it. I've been writing this story for so fucking long; I've grown kind of attached to it, to be honest. Anyway, do let me know what you guys thought about it. Reviews and comments are always appreciated. Xoxo.


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